Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(25)

All she had to do was lean forward . . .

She’d felt passion for this man for years. She was in a hotel in a foreign world. What did it matter after all the horrible things she had done?

But it did matter. She knew it down to her core. If she gave herself to this man, she would be giving up more than her body. It would create an inextricable union between them.

But it felt . . . so good.

Her mind was pounding with pain. Why not? Why not submit to her fate?

A whisper penetrated her mind.

Because you do not decide what is right and what is wrong.

It pierced the deepest part of her mind, penetrated the farthest corners of her heart. She knew the voice. She’d heard it before. It was the voice of the Mysteries, which she’d never expected to hear again. Yet it had come to her at the most critical moment.

You do not decide what is right and what is wrong.

The echo of it burned inside her with a conviction that shattered all doubt. No person, Cettie or otherwise, could define truth. It existed, independent of belief. Inviolate. Immovable.

Her hand was still atop Rand’s as he continued to reach up her leg. He was leaning over her now. Something felt wrong. Inside her mind, she heard shrieking.

Cettie grabbed his wrist, squeezing his hand to keep it from continuing its upward journey. Then, with her other hand, she grabbed for his finger and torqued it up. Her own feelings were bound to his. What hurt she caused him also happened to her. The sudden pain shocked them both.

But it gave her just enough of an opening to wrench the ring off his finger. When she did, she felt a strange gushing sensation as the Myriad Ones left her body. She staggered from the shock of it, feeling hollow yet full—left alone with her thoughts for the first time in a long, long while. But there was no time to marvel over it. No time to steep in the joy of freedom.

The illusion had melted away. It wasn’t Rand Patchett standing before her.

It was a man she’d never seen, his face a mass of knotted flesh. It was a hideous face ravaged by scars. She saw his eyes flare with rage.

“W-who are you?” Cettie gasped.





CHAPTER NINE

THE TRUTH WILL OUT



Cettie sensed a surge of rage through their connected bond just before the kishion’s forearm lunged forward to crush her throat. That was all the warning she needed. Just in time, she caught his arm and kicked him solidly in the stomach, knocking him backward. But her defense only kept him away for a moment before he lunged at her again, trying to tackle her against the couch. She had no doubt that he would do anything to hurt her. There was no time for her to contemplate his new face. No time to do anything but fight.

Cettie dived out of the way, finding the hotel den too cramped for her usual maneuvers. She banged her shins against a small table, giving him an opening to grab her wrist and attempt to force her arm behind her back. She thrust an elbow into his cheek, and they both crashed to the floor. He freed her arm, but in the next instant a pillow crushed against her face, hard enough to smother her. She managed to control her fear, her racing pulse. In fact, she blasted him with the sensation of being smothered, making him feel that he was the one without air. The deception worked, and Cettie bucked and twisted until her hand found his throat, then his chin, then his eye.

The pillow came away, and she wrestled herself free. They were both panting at this point, having smashed each other against most of the furniture in the room. She got to her knees and found him hovering over her. Without hesitating, she struck at his groin with her fist. He blocked the blow and chopped his hand down against the side of her neck. The blow nearly knocked her out, but her training saved her. She leaped up, uncoiling like a spring, and attacked him with both hands in a Bhikhu technique.

He toppled over the back of the couch, and Cettie retreated, hand behind her back, twisting one of her poisoner rings to expose the needle.

The reprieve was brief.

“Where do you think you’ll go?” he demanded, his face shining with sweat. She felt his anger, his frustration, his inner shame at the scars on his face. “Do you think there is anywhere you could run?”

“Who are you?” she said, breathing fast. “You’re not Rand Patchett.”

He flung a tray at her head, but she’d seen a glimpse of his intent before the action and ducked. He vaulted over the couch, landing a kick to her middle. She flew backward, but didn’t stay down. When he lunged at her again, she tried to prick his arm with the needle ring, but he grabbed her forearm and sent her spinning to the floor. As she landed, she rolled, breaking free of his grasp, and hooked her foot behind his leg and swiveled. He came tumbling down as well. She struck him in the face once, twice—then he grabbed her hair and yanked, making her gasp with pain.

“Stop fighting me, Cettie!” he snarled at her.

She tried smacking him across the face with her ring hand, but he blocked it, knowing full well what a poisoner could do. He wrested her hand away, squeezing her fingers painfully, until she managed to get her teeth on his hand and bite hard. He let go, only to grab her around the middle, hoist her off her feet, and throw her across the room.

Her back screamed with pain, and she slumped to the floor. Cettie decided to lay still, to pretend that she was unconscious. It was a risk, because he could sense her feelings, but she did her best to guard her mind. Her back ached. Her hair veiled part of her face. Her ears listened for sounds of movement. He was breathing quickly, wiping his face. They were both sweating.