The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 40

Tristan pushed through the swinging double doors and descended the stairs, arriving at the familiar long, empty hallway.

Triangular beams of light streamed down the walls, illuminating white veins cobwebbed throughout the black marble.

He and Cael rushed down the corridor, his wings rustling behind him. They approached the dead-end and paused at the corner.

Cael sent a blistering gust of wind swirling around the bend. Metal chairs toppled, and a door slammed, followed by two startled grunts.

Tristan brought his hands up to his throat, silently conveying the plan, and Cael nodded.

The two Windriders whipped into the hallway, startling the white-clad Deathstalker guards.

The confusion on their serpentine faces transformed into anger as they rushed forward, hissing and snarling, fangs popping. Summoning their powers, Tristan and Cael sucked the air from the guards’ lungs.

The Deathstalkers sank to their knees, clawing at their throats, their skin purpling and their eyeballs bulging. Great currents of air flowed out of their mouths, whipping past Tristan and rattling his feathers until they both fell forward, unconscious.

Tristan recognized one of the Deathstalkers from the alley behind the Empress’s Lap, the shaved head covered in a snakeskin tattoo.

“Grab the other one,” Tristan jutted his chin at the shorter, stockier guard. “Let’s shove them into the office.”

He dragged the Deathstalker’s body down the hall, the unconscious male’s rubber-soled boots squeaking along the polished stone floor. Tristan tossed him into the closet-sized room.

Cael followed with the second guard, then wedged a metal chair under the handle—not that it would do much good against Fae strength. But it might slow them down a little. Tristan figured in about ten minutes, tops, the guards’ Fae bodies would heal and replenish their desiccated lungs.

He strode over to the fourth door on the left and examined the black pad. He wished he’d given in to his rage and cut off Aristol’s thumb—gruesome, but better than his only other option, which was going to be extremely damaging and potentially dangerous to the prisoner inside.

He rapped on the door, the metallic bang ricocheting off the bare walls. “This is Officer Saros of the Vestian Guards. We’re here to free you.” He pressed his ear to the cold metal and a low moan seeped through.

“I’m going to blow the door in. Crouch under the bed and cover your head!” he yelled. “Fuck, this is going to be so loud,” he said to Cael. “Open the other cell at the same time in case someone hears and comes running to check.”

Cael turned to the other door, shouting warnings to the prisoner inside. “No response,” he shrugged.

Tristan shook his head. “No time to try again, we need to leave before those two guards wake up.”

Cael nodded and swiveled, facing the cell door, his feet braced and his wings flared to keep steady.

“On the count of three,” Tristan said. “One…two…three!”

Both Windriders released the full might of their powers onto the doors, veritable typhoons shooting from their outstretched hands. Tristan’s torrent blasted into the heavy metal, which groaned in protest before giving way and slamming into the cell wall with a thunderous clang.

The first thing Tristan noticed was the horrific stench. Not of death, but a different kind of decay—the deepest, most heart-rending despair—as if it had been accumulating within the cell for weeks. Not even the force of his wind could chase it away.

Tristan rushed in and crouched by the bed. A thin, frail woman peered out from underneath. He extended his hand, trying to appear nonthreatening. “I’m here to help you. You are safe. You can come out.”

A bony white hand shook as it floated out of the shadows and into the harsh glare of the cell. Tristan gripped her hand in his massive golden-brown paw, then angled her wrist to replace the tattoo of the Shrouded Sisters, Letha’s symbol.

The woman crawled out slowly, her dull brown hair hanging in matted clumps. She resembled an animated corpse with sunken cheeks and deep purple half-moons under her bloodshot eyes.

He had to take several very long, very deep breaths to quiet the rage threatening to consume him, render him useless. It was inconceivable that anyone could treat another living being this way.

Tristan swept the woman in his arms. “Sister Kouris?” he whispered.

She burst into body-shattering sobs, her wails so loud and harsh that he feared she was going to break a rib. He held her against his chest, letting the anger and grief tear through her.

“I didn’t want to,” she sobbed, her voice raw, croaking, unused for weeks. “They made me do it. High Gods, spare me! Letha forgive me!”

Tristan understood her rantings as soon as he saw the woman in Cael’s arms.

Two gray pigtails drooped over his friend’s elbow, and a gnarly scar from Opheron’s fangs ran down the old woman’s face.

Vacant blue eyes bore into Tristan, seeing nothing at all.

Sister Aritia had been obliviated.

Cassandra cradled the tan plastic pistol, running her fingers along the smooth barrel. For such a powerful weapon, it was impossibly small and light. She marveled that Fae magic, capable of creation and destruction, could be this weightless.

Xenia paced in front of the loading door, her training shoes smacking the concrete at a steady, irritating rhythm. Her tight blond curls swirled in a frenzied halo. “They should have been back by now,” she muttered, over and over.

“It’s been ten minutes, Zee,” Cassandra countered. “They’ve barely had enough time to walk down that hallway.”

Xenia shot an annoyed look at her friend before continuing her pacing.

Cassandra hadn’t been too worried, but Xenia’s anxious, repetitive steps and chanting had her considering the worst.

Just as she was about to discard her caution and force the door open, it rattled to life and began a slow ascent.

Two pairs of black boots appeared in the widening crack, and Cassandra let out a cry of relief.

Then she beheld her missing Sisters, and her relief curdled in her stomach.

Sister Kouris looked like death warmed over, quietly sobbing and muttering a prayer to Letha. The poor woman had lost at least ten pounds since Cassandra had last seen her, looking much worse than she had in Aristol’s memory.

As horrified as Cassandra was by the sight of Sister Kouris, Cora’s vacant stare was worse. It sent a paralyzing chill through Cassandra’s limbs more effectively than the weapon in her hand.

“I’m so sorry Cassandra, Xenia,” Tristan said, his face a mask of sorrow edged in molten rage.

Cassandra tucked the pistol into her waistband and rushed over to Cora. She cradled the woman’s face, choking back the tears that threatened to drown her. Cora didn’t deserve this fate. Her kind, sweet, funny friend had supported her through so many trivial crises and never asked for anything in return.

Xenia stroked Sister Kouris’s filthy hair and cooed soothing words into her ear, trying to calm the woman down.

“We need to get them back to the Temple immediately,” Cassandra said.

“I’ve sent another message to Hella. She should be here any minute,” Tristan answered.

A barrage of metallic thunks shivered down the dock as a black-clad Windrider clomped towards them.

Hella was stunning—in the literal sense of the word. Not beautiful, per se, but had an appearance that would stun even a casual onlooker.

Her blood-red wings appeared almost black in the moonless dark, and her piercing golden eyes matched the color of the hair that fell to her waist in hundreds of tiny braids.

She was the tallest female Cassandra had ever seen—at least as tall as Tristan and almost as hulking.

Tristan approached Hella and passed Sister Kouris into the towering female’s arms. “Hella, thank you for getting here so quickly.”

“Don’t think on it.” Hella’s voice was clipped, sonorous, and accented from the north-central region of Ethyrios—a snow-covered land filled with fjords and fish. Her words and gestures were crisp, as if she didn’t have a moment to spare for either.

Cael passed Cora to Hella as well, and the female Windrider’s face fell when she noticed the Sister’s vacant eyes.

“Fly them back to the Temple,” Tristan ordered. Cassandra wondered why no one was rushing from the building to apprehend them. No way could the opticorders have missed the arrival of a new Windrider on the dock. “Ask for the abbess when you get there.”

Hella shot into the ink-black sky without a moment’s hesitation, a Sister flung over each bulky shoulder.

“Are you sure we can trust Mother Superior?” Cassandra aimed the question at Tristan.

“We’ll be right behind them,” Tristan answered. “What could she possibly do before we get there?”

Cael turned to Xenia and silently swept her into his arms before launching off the dock and following the path that Hella had carved.

Tristan stepped towards Cassandra, and she stared up at him, relieved yet anxious. This wasn’t over; there was one missing Sister left.

As if reading her thoughts, Tristan cupped her cheek in his warm, callused hand. “Whatever it takes, Cass. We’ll get her back too.” She knew he meant it, even if she couldn’t fathom how it would be possible. He scooped her into his arms and took off to catch up with Cael.

They’d been in the air for less than two minutes, flying above the simmering black sea when a pulse of magic whipped past Tristan’s head, barely missing his temple.

“What the—” Tristan bellowed as the second pulse struck its target.

Tristan’s wings seized, and his arms fell open. Cassandra tumbled from his grasp, his eyes locking in pure terror as he tried and failed to reach for her with stiff, uncooperative limbs.

The last thing she saw as the sea rushed up to swallow her was an imposing gray yacht looming on the surface. A humanoid figure stood at the bow, its arms raised in a shooting position.

She smashed into the water, hard and unyielding from so high a plunge, and the world went black.