Page 61 of Love, Nemesis
The path opened into a great sanctuary around a cave where one grand slab of stone rested. She knew without reading it the nature of the thirty-two names, most of them scarred through to mark the death of a Strike. What she had not expected were the grand rock faces, rising up in and around the cave, covered in names that extended as high as her eyes could see.
As they walked past the names, she watched Lethe, but he didn’t do so much as look at the names.
Glancing back, Ares seemed to notice her interest. “This place belonged to the Riders of Saint East,” he said. He removed hisblack head covering, revealing the pallor of his delicate, pale features and his notorious gray eyes. “These names are the memorialized murdered, missing and then those frostbitten by the Strike virus who had to be executed. This is what I would call a sacred place,” he explained, looking over the names as they rode through the stone yard back to a single path. “The silence here speaks of a generation who gave everything to protect the soul of humanity, even when mankind didn’t want it any longer. The Riders embraced the philosophy of the Sanctus Ghost—this powerful thing, call it faith. It’s illusive but real, divine and yet innate to us all, much like music. It is the opposite of The Eating Ocean.”
No one spoke, and Ares looked up at two connecting cliffs above with a gateway on each side. Despite the nature of the path, the cliffs were far apart. She could not have imagined everyone making the leap.
“It takes bravery, surrender, and a deep sense of one’s purpose to jump cliffs chasing a ghost,” Ares said, “even a divine one.”
Those seemed to be the final words of the ride.
The mountains nestled them into small paths again, and when they opened up once more, the three of them were overlooking a valley of abandoned houses.
Ana knew the nature of the houses without asking. When the war had started, the Riders of Saint East were something like bodyguards, preserving the essence of human culture—the best musicians, scientists,artists,scholars, chefs—people who had a deep understanding of things that seemed to define mankind’s nature. Each Rider had space on their right arm with the namesof people tattooed, a severe dedication to bring them through the war intact.
When the Strike came to official power, they hunted down the people the Riders had protected, eventually giving way to the cult of extremists that brought down the Strike’s regime. Those were the riders Lethe had been a part of. His arms—the right one bare, the left tattooed with the names of the Strike—were a clear indication of that.
Ana centered her gaze back on Ares abruptly as the horses stopped. He was looking down at his watch, adjusting something on it.
“You have ten minutes,” he said before looking up at her.
Ana’s brows furrowed and she looked over at Lethe.
Well, the empty saddle where Lethe was just a second ago.What? When did he—?
“Or I shoot him,” Ares clarified.
Ana leapt off her horse like a reflex, spotting a nearby cave that could have been Lethe’s only escape.
“Don’t kill anyone!” she shouted back at Ares, sprinting into the cave before skidding to a stop where the cave split into several tunnels.
“Lethe!” she shouted before muttering to herself, “I’m going to kill him.”
Her heart pounded with adrenaline and rage as she picked a direction and sprinted down it. The tunnels were a terrible maze, winding in every which way and direction.
She called for Lethe several times, sprinting through the tunnels lit by dim skylights. She passed by old, broken furniture, cobwebs, and bug-eaten leather bags, clothes, and saddles. After several minutes, she slid to a stop, nearly slipping over the side of an abrupt cliff at a tunnel exit. Across a sizable distance, in the tunnels across a deep cleft, she spotted the slightest movement.
If it was in fact Lethe, she had no clue how he’d managed to get over there.
She searched the area, unable to find any nearby bridges, ropes, or passageways. Heart pounding, she removed the belt from her pants, keeping her utility belt intact.
She eased back toward the cave she’d come from, eyes focused on the cliff across the way. In one arm, she held her belt, buckle at the end, and in the other, she dialed back the triggers on her Atlas, adjusting the radius of the time release. She selected four and a half hours with a very small radius of release—thick time, they called it.
She hooked her belt around one of the triggers before tossing her Atlas into the air, high between the cliffs. She sprinted after it as it activated, hovering in the air with the belt hanging from it.
She grabbed her belt and swung, and what would have been a second for the belt to come loose with her body weight compounded to several seconds. She used that time to swing herself onto the opposite cliff, hitting her retrieval ring as she rolled.
She lifted her hand and caught her Atlas, just as it whirred toward her fingers. Her belt came loose, falling through the air between the cliffs. She heard it hit the ground far below and rubbed her face.
Lethe owed her a belt.
She checked her watch.
Nine minutes.
Ares had never failed to kill a target.
She searched the new array of tunnels as clouds grumbled overhead. A crack of lightning split the dark, building storm clouds overhead.
