Yet there is something else—some twisted thrill that I have never experienced. I have never been keen on taking risks. Growing up with an alcoholic mother, I was always the pragmatic cool head, the mature, self-controlled kid, always warning the others when they were up to something stupid. Oh, how the tables have turned, how the last days have changed me. Here I am, walking in an off-limits area, expecting to be arrested or kidnapped by a mythical creature with dark plans about my destiny.
I just hope he gives me the chance to speak before hooking me up to his wretched extractor.
With another step into the darkness, unfamiliar scents and distant scratching raise the hairs on my forearms. I hope my gamble was right.
Cyrell – The Warrior
T racking enemies in complete darkness is my element. Cerberus´ senses also extend beyond the sophisticated mechanics of his body. He was defeated and damaged by the other Hunters when they attacked my den, but I managed to patch him up. The scent of Celeste’s fear left a bright trail for me to follow. I ran the gloomy tunnels, calling her name, and realized she was gone when I reached the corner where the vengeful fantom lingers.
The spy and the priest were faster than me.
My fangs extended, and I punched the wall, craving the pain to sober me up from the dangerous frustration brewing, threatening to swallow the last pieces of sanity.
For days I feared they might have already taken the Anchor to Faëheim. Yet the other Hunters would not risk delivering such a powerful weapon straight to the Siphons without tapping into her magic first.
So, I decided to wait and kept an eye on her house. Maybe she would return to pick something up? I saw her friend dropping by daily, probably feeding her cat, yet no sign of Celeste’s bright presence.
I stalked her friend, watched her, studied her routine, and looked her up in the realm they call cyberspace.
The messengers of human communication—those white doves darting between different virtual locations—are so easy to intercept. Jasmin was receiving messages from Cuba, pictures of Celeste in a pool with the other two Hunters, looking happy and relaxed.
Relief soothed the poisonous sting of jealousy. Celeste was still within my reach! They took her to the safe house of Tarcyll.
Tapping into the all-seeing eyes of the video surveillance system took me a while. And then I watched those wretched Fae around the human, day and night, drooling like starving wolves around a lamb, competing for her attention. My punches cracked the table.
The priest was up to something. When Celeste entered the steam bath with the spy, I could see the sparks of powerful magic. Something happened inside, something disturbing enough for Diaphonus to take our valuable human somewhere else—to another safe place.
I watched the desperate and betrayed Tarcyll destroy most of the house in the following days and drank himself into a stupor. Oh, how well I knew this feeling of failure and desperation.
Then, a week later, the elven priest suddenly reappeared, looking serene and radiant, and portaled them both elsewhere. It should be a place the elf feels utterly safe if he is risking drawing the attention of the Dreadful One or even the Siphons by using magic. Picking up a trail like this—finding someone across plains of reality and realms—would be a challenge even for an Elder.
Days pass, and my hopes fade.
I have failed my people.
My sister and nephews will perish in the suffocating darkness. Countless innocents will pay with their lives when the Council of the Elders starts sacrifices to appease the Siphons.
I pace the room, swinging my lance and replaying the events from the last weeks repeatedly in my mind. A blade has always calmed my racing thoughts. Cerberus’ glowing eyes critically follow my every move.
I halt in front of a pile of disemboweled appliances, kicking an old cell phone.
Should I return to the Council empty-handed? Should I confess that the spy and the priest have outsmarted me? And what would kill me first when the Elders´ vile magic tentacles dig into my memories? Their just rage at my failure or my shame?
There must be another way.
Maybe my loyal friend can pick up the trail of her magic across the realms, maybe—
“Cyrell!”
Cerberus cocks his massive bronze head, hearkening. He might be large as a chariot, yet he has the soul of a puppy. Am I hallucinating?
“Cyrell? It’s me, Celeste! We need to talk!”
She is far, yet distance in the underground darkness is nothing to a dark elf warrior. We follow the sweet poison of her voice and find her close to the tunnel where we first met.
The relief of finding her is snuffed by white-hot rage. Who does she think she is, defying me, collaborating with the other Hunters?
“I see you have finally come to your senses!” I bark, roughly grabbing her arm. I pull her behind me down the tunnel, probably leaving bruises on her tender skin.
