Page 31 of Bought By the Revenant
I stumble out into a small, dark room that smells like dust and old wood. My head spins while I wait for the dizziness to pass, and then I push open the only door that I see to find myself standing inside a church. Strange symbols that mean nothing to me are carved into the walls, and in the middle of the room, there’s a highly stylized statue of a horned figure surrounded by flames. The church is empty, so I hurry to the front entrance. When I push open the heavy wooden doors, a scream pierces the air.
Amity.
I run toward the sound, my heavy feet pounding the dry, crumbling soil. I can easily tell it hasn’t rained here in months. Soon, my nose and throat feel clogged with dust. I don’t know where Witherglen is on the map of Alia Terra, but my guess is it’s very far away, and very far south. The village is tiny, with buildings clustered around the church, and a grove of old oak trees lying beyond. The screaming comes from there.
I crash between the trees, and burst into a clearing, where I stop dead in my tracks. My mind cannot comprehend what I see.
A stone altar stands in the center of the open space. Amity lies stretched across it with thick ropes tying down her wrists and ankles. Someone has cut her left arm open from her elbow to her wrist, and blood runs down her arm in streams that collect in channels carved into the stone. The channels guide her blood to the edges of the altar, where it drips steadily onto the ground below. Her face has turned white from losing so much blood, and her blue eyes stare around wildly.
An old man wearing red robes stands over her holding a decorated knife. He moves the blade to her right arm and presses the sharp edge against her skin. Dozens of villagersstand in a circle around the altar while they chant the same words over and over in perfect rhythm.
They’re killing her.
Rage explodes through me with a force I haven’t felt in hundreds of years. I spread my arms wide, stretching to my full height. I fill my lungs with air and let out a roar that comes from the oldest, darkest part of me. It doesn’t sound human. Because I’m not human.
Chapter Fifteen
Amity
The world spins above me, and the faces of the villagers blend together into one shapeless mass. The chanting sounds distant now, as if I’m already halfway to wherever the dead go, but then there’s a roar that cuts through it, and the sheer power of it pulls me back to consciousness. I look up and see the terror in everyone’s eyes.
“What is that?” someone screams.
The villagers start to scatter in every direction, their organized circle breaking apart as bodies fly through the air. Something or someone plows through the crowd, and every man who tries to stand against this force is tossed aside as if he weighs nothing. I see flashes of movement between the fleeing bodies and hear the crack of bones and screams of pain, and finally the crowd parts enough for me to see him. Riven charges toward the altar, his white hair wild and his glowing eyes blazing with fury. His stitches strain against his bulging muscles, and every step shakes the ground. I can’t believe it, but he found me. He came for me.
“Riven,” I cry out.
He freezes at the sound of my voice, his eyes locking with mine across the chaos. In that moment of distraction, a figure lunges from the side. Thorne drives a knife into Riven’s ribs, and terror seizes me as I watch the blade sink deep. Riven staggers, surprise flickering across his face, then looks down at the knife protruding from his body. The blood that seeps from the wound is darker than a human’s, almost black against his pale skin. Anger transforms his face, and if he feels any pain, I can’t tell. Slowly, he pulls the knife from his side, ignoring all the blood. His eyes never leave Thorne’s face as he moves with inhuman speed, plunging the blade into Thorne’s throat and driving it into the hilt. Thorne’s eyes bulge in shock while his mouth opens and closes without sound. Blood bubbles from his lips as he collapses at the foot of the altar. His fingers twitch once, twice, then go still.
The Elder stares at his son’s body in frozen shock. For several heartbeats, he can’t move or speak. Then a wail tears from his throat, and he falls to his knees. His hands hover over the wound as if unsure whether to touch it, and when rage replaces his grief, he tears at his white hair, ripping out clumps that fall to the bloodstained ground. When he finally looks up at Riven, his eyes burn with pure hatred.
“Draug will have his revenge,” he hisses, pointing a trembling finger first at me, then at Riven. “His curse will follow you both until your souls are consumed by eternal darkness.”
Riven looks down at him with a passive expression on his face.
“Run,” he says. “Run now, old man, or I won’t spare your life merely because of your age.”
The Elder hesitates for only a moment before scrambling to his feet and fleeing into the forest, his red robes billowing behind him as he disappears between the trees.
Several men rush Riven from different directions, their weapons raised high. But my husband moves with deadly grace, breaking arms and shattering legs, tossing bodies aside without apparent effort. The villagers’ courage falters as they realize what they’re facing. One by one, then in groups, they retreat, dragging the wounded with them and barricading themselves in their homes.
Silence falls over the grove. Only Riven, Thorne’s cooling body, and I remain among the sacred trees.
Riven approaches the altar, his rage melting into tenderness as he begins to untie the ropes.
“I found you,” he whispers. “I found you.”
I try to speak, but my words slur together. The world tilts and spins, and I can feel my life flowing out through the wound in my arm. I’m losing too much blood, too quickly.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
He lifts me from the altar, cradling me against his chest. The warmth of his body seeps into my cold skin as he carries me through the village. Faces peer from windows only to vanish when they see us, and doors slam shut as we pass. The streets of Witherglen, once so familiar, now seem strange and hostile.
We pass my childhood home, and for a moment I see not the present but the past. My little brother chases me through the streets, laughing as I let him almost catch me. The peach tree still stands in front of our gate, and I can see my parents there, reaching up to pick the ripened fruit with joy on their faces. My heart aches with longing at these memories. Perhaps death isn’t something to fear, after all. Perhaps it means reunion with those I’ve lost.
Riven carries me to the church. To my confusion, he heads inside rather than continuing toward the road that would take us away from this place.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
