Martyr : The Hunted, book one

Chapter Two

two

†

He didn’t know how long he lay there. The wind and rain were a constant roar, but their sound was distant compared to the throb of blood in his ears. He couldn’t open his eyes against the screams of memories raging in his head.

An empty house, lines of blood streaking the halls. The bedroom door, perfectly clean. It opens under his fingertips with a slow, forbidding creak. Inside, everything is pristine. His skin crawls with the emptiness. Mom? Dad? Where are you?

Something brushed his cheek. Frayed nerves snapped into life, and his eyes fluttered open.

Katherine knelt above him. Blood stained her skin, and long gashes webbed across her in leaking lines.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice was angelic, if only because he had been certain he’d killed her.

Tenn could only nod.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. “Badly.”

He took a deep, shaky breath and forced himself to sitting. His bones screamed in defiance. He was covered in cuts and bruises, some gashes most likely fatal if he didn’t act fast. Her wounds were just as bad.

“So are you,” he managed.

“You’ve already broken orders,” she said, without the slightest hint of sarcasm. “We might as well live to face Jarrett’s wrath.”

He nodded.

Then he closed his eyes and pushed deep into the pit of his pelvis, to the place where the Sphere of Earth rested. It was the second and last Sphere he’d been attuned to. He coaxed it awake and sank his focus into the rich soil of it, to the heavy power that rooted him to the earth. Energy filled him with green light, with the warm, calming sap of gravity and flesh. When he opened his eyes, he could still see the light vining through his pelvis. He reached out and placed his hands on Katherine’s arm, feeling every cut and injury in her body. With the gentlest of touches, he pushed the energy through her and began to heal her wounds.

She winced as flesh knitted itself back together. If his connection to Earth had taught him anything, it was that dying was easy; healing was the painful part. When her wounds had closed, he turned his attention to himself. Arcs of fire lanced across his skin. He didn’t grimace. This pain, this physical hurt, couldn’t hold a candle to the hell that Water dragged him through. An old Monty Python quote flitted through his mind, and he had to force down a manic chuckle: “It’s just a flesh wound.”

His stomach rumbled and his limbs shook the moment he closed off to Earth. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. That was the main drawback of Earth—when it filled you, it made you feel invincible. The moment it left, you were reminded just how weak your body truly was.

Tenn forced himself to standing, using his staff as a crutch. Katherine was either too preoccupied or too polite to try and help him up.

“Michael?” he asked.

She just shook her head and continued looking off into the distance. The rain hid whatever tears she might be shedding. He bit back an apology; apologies wouldn’t bring the guy back. Idiot or no, he had still been their companion. He was still important.

For a while, they stood there, looking out over the massacre. The field was covered in grey corpses, blood pooling like an oil spill. Even through the deluge, the scent of death and decay was thick in the air, cloying and coating his lungs. Michael was probably underneath the bodies somewhere. It didn’t seem right. He deserved a better burial.