Anathema (Causal Enchantment #1)(5)
Author: K.A. Tucker

It moved.

A chill of realization slid down my spine. It wasn’t an object. It was a person.

“I’ll visit, I promise,” I heard a male voice bellow as one of them hoisted the person’s body up and tossed it toward the center of the river. A large rectangular object followed closely after, entering the river with a big splash.

The blood coursing through my veins turned icy as I stood there, my eyes wide with terror. I waited for the body to resurface, a kick or a splash—some sign of life, some clue that this was a prank.

It finally sank in. I was witnessing murder. Someone was drowning right before my eyes. These people weren’t going to save me. Once they noticed I was here, they’d hunt me down and toss me in to join their first victim, to hide all evidence. All they had to do was turn around.

My hand flew to my pendant, trying to mask the pulsating glow. I dropped noiselessly to the ground and slithered commando style into a thick mass of ferns until I was adequately concealed but still able to observe the killers. They loitered on the edge of the river, chattering and laughing like a bunch of teenagers while their victim drowned.

Feeling marginally safe for the moment, I turned my attention to the person in the water. It had to be the female. Was she alive when she was tossed in? She hadn’t struggled or even uttered a sound. If she was alive, surely she could only hold her breath for three, four minutes, tops, if I had learned anything from high school Biology class. One … two … three … I began counting seconds in my head but couldn’t get past five. The sound of my pounding heart kept making me lose count. The more I focused on slowing it, the more furious the beating became.

The group’s casual chatter died down and they turned and began scanning the forest. My chest tightened in alarm as three pairs of eyes landed on the very bush I was hiding under. Oh God, they can see me. They’re going to drown me too. My body went rigid. Would they go through the trouble of crossing the river to get to me? Of course they would. I was a witness to their evil crime.

I waited for splashes, for that menacing laugh, for a hand to wrench me from my hiding spot. I gritted my teeth as the burn of my pendant intensified, certain that it was searing my skin. Thankfully it was buried under my body, otherwise there’d be a bright red flare to guide the murderers over.

Leave! Leave! an insistent voice screamed inside my head.

My palms were damp, my knuckles had turned white, and a full–scale panic attack was imminent when the group dismissed whatever had caught their attention and disappeared into the woods in the opposite direction. I allowed myself the smallest sigh of relief, afraid anything louder would echo across the water.

As soon as I judged they were out of earshot, I crept out from under my bush and darted toward the riverbank. I silently waded into the water, now too fueled with adrenaline to notice its chill. I was sure I was too late. I was sure I was swimming out to find only death—if I could even find her in the river’s murk—but I swam out anyway.

Taking a deep, resigned breath, I dove under. Blonde, wavy hair billowed softly beneath me. She was there, motionless, at the bottom of the river.

I resurfaced, grief washing over me. I was too late.

Be more certain, my conscience whispered. I stalled. Swim to her now, it insisted. It was right. I couldn’t ignore it. So I took another deep breath and under I went, propelling myself down to the riverbed in seconds to face her. She had been a pretty girl of maybe sixteen, with a dainty button nose and delicate, high cheekbones. Her eyes were closed, tightened in a way that suggested she was alive and in pain, but her lips—large, plump, pink lips—were parted to allow water into her lungs.

I was sure she was dead, and yet … My hand slowly reached toward her shoulder. I jabbed her with my index finger.

Green eyes shot open, focusing on me.

I gasped. Water flooded into my mouth and throat, pushing down into my lungs. I had to get to the surface, breathe—now. Flailing my arms and legs wildly, I clawed my way to the surface to cough up the frigid river water.

She’s alive! Why doesn’t she swim up? I wondered while I choked. It didn’t matter, I had to help her. I dove back down and grabbed her forearm. Both her hands floated up in unison, bound by a silvery cord. I’d have to untie that later—no time now. I hooked my arm around her waist and kicked forcefully, attempting to tow her up.

She wouldn’t budge. Something was weighing her down.

I let go of her waist and swam farther down to find a large concrete block resting on the riverbed, fastened to her ankle with more silvery cord. It had to weigh at least three hundred pounds. That’s what they threw in after her, I realized, though I didn’t know how any one human being could have hoisted it and tossed it in with the ease I had witnessed.

The cord was fastened to her ankle in an intricate knot. It would take me hours to unravel, if I could even loosen it. Hours she didn’t have. I reached down and, with one hand on either side of the knot to test the tautness, I tugged lightly. My eyes widened in shock when the silvery rope pulled apart like cotton candy. I didn’t waste time dwelling on the small miracle. I reached up and pulled at her wrist bindings to find they came apart as easily.

She was free. Hooking my arm around the girl’s waist again, I pulled her to the rivers’ surface.

“You’re going to be fine,” I whispered hoarsely, my breathing ragged, one arm gripping her tightly while I used the other to paddle us to shore. She didn’t struggle, or speak, or even gasp for air. I’m too late. I took too long.

By the time we reached the nearest bank, I was on the verge of unconsciousness. I dragged her to safety, then collapsed with my cheek in the cool mud, where I would have willingly stayed for hours.

“You’re breathing. You’re gasping for air,” someone said in a raspy voice. It wasn’t offensive or ugly in the least. It had that inflection that men find sexy.

I pulled my face out of the mud to see my would–be drowning victim sitting calmly in the mud, unscathed. My shock reenergized me, reviving my exhausted body. I sat up to stare at her.

She repeated herself.

“I’m sorry, I’m not a strong swimmer,” I said.

She wore a curious expression as she studied me with big, almond–shaped green eyes. This girl was pretty when I thought she was dead; now that she was alive, I could see that she was drop–dead gorgeous. She had the creamy pale skin and dimpled cheeks of an angel, reminding me of one of those cheerleaders—the bubbly, popular kind. “Was the rope difficult to untie?” she asked softly.

I shook my head. “It practically crumbled in my hands. Why didn’t you break free?”

“I couldn’t,” she replied simply.

My body shuddered violently then, succumbing to the frigid temperature of the water and the air. A peculiar look flashed in the girl’s eyes—eagerness, shock—a mixture, perhaps. She seemed unaffected by the cold air though her clothes were dripping wet. More importantly, she was too relaxed for someone who had just been dumped into a river to die. She must be in shock.

Her eyes darted to the darkness under the trees. “We need to leave right now, before they come back. This way.” She was on her feet instantly.

The idea of facing murderers had me jumping up to follow her. I hadn’t taken two steps, though, when I lost my footing under the slick mud, and fell.

For the second time that night, I woke up in a strange place. My head throbbed. Reaching up, I winced as my fingers grazed a sizeable goose egg behind my right temple. How did I … Memories of the night flashed through my mind then—the statue, icy water, the girl with the emerald eyes. She’d been drowning and I rescued her. Sort of.

A comfortable heat warmed my back. Rolling over with difficulty, I found myself lying beside a large firepit. I spent a few moments staring at the flames as they flickered in a captivating dance.

“Are you too hot?” a raspy voice asked.

I recognized the owner as my near–drowning victim. Rolling onto my back, I found her sitting cross–legged on the ground behind my head, peering down at me with eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the firelight.

“What’s your name?” she asked, casually twirling a strand of wildly curly blonde hair—now dry and jutting out in all directions like shiny, fat springs. The curls reminded me of Medusa’s head of snakes.

I scrambled to sit up but swooned, my head throbbing.

“Don’t rush,” she said, patting my back as I lay in a heap on the ground, my forehead against a stone. “At least you’re dry. And clean. I think I got all the mud off you. I can’t believe you went into that water. Do you know what’s in there?” She rambled on, though I couldn’t focus on her words; I was too busy trying not to vomit.

Once the spinning subsided, I slowly pushed myself up to sit in front of her. God, she looks like an angel. Except for her clothes. They were shabby and dark and frayed by what looked like decades of wear—clothes one would expect to find on a homeless person. I hadn’t noticed them before.

She frowned. “How’s your head?”

I didn’t answer, too busy investigating the stone walls, low ceiling, and general eeriness around me. We were in a cave.

“I think there’s something wrong with her,” Medusa–girl whispered to someone behind me.

I turned. A man in his early twenties towered over us, several large chunks of wood in his arms. He had the same large, beautiful green eyes as Medusa–girl, only a different shade of green—jade instead of emerald, and more intense. His long slender nose and pronounced cheekbones were almost femininely pretty, but those features were well balanced by a masculine square jaw and unkempt chestnut brown hair, neither too long nor too short.

I gawked openly at him, unable to peel my attention away, until I noticed his jaw clench. I quickly averted my gaze to my hands.

Cool, sinister laughter echoed through the cave then, sending a shiver down my spine. Searching the darkness for the owner, I saw a woman suddenly materialize out of nothingness, her seductive, confident gait triggering images of a wild cat stalking its prey. She stopped beside the young man, tossing her thick mane of raven black hair over her shoulder before gazing down at me with a detached air and lemon–yellow eyes, too light to ever be mistaken for hazel.

I was staring into those eyes, mesmerized, wondering if they were authentic or colored contacts, when more voices spoke.

“What’s with the fire?” a male voice asked, its owner walking through the cave entrance. He stopped beside the firepit, a surprised look on his face as his charcoal–gray eyes landed on me. “Who’s this?” Except for his pale complexion, he fit the stereotype of a surfer with his shaggy, golden blonde hair, lean, muscular build, and boyish, carefree grin, which he was proudly displaying for me now.

Yet another set of piercing eyes landed on me then—large, catlike, violet eyes—as a woman stepped in beside him. His girlfriend, by the way he immediately draped his arm around her shoulder and planted a kiss on her heart–shaped face. She pushed a strand of long, caramel–brown hair off her brow.

I suddenly understood what it felt like to be a gangly, awkward twelve–year–old with braces and frizzy orange hair, stumbling into a group of inhumanly beautiful adults. They were utterly flawless, free of the usual suspects—the crooked teeth, the deviated nose, the disproportionately set eyes. Their faces were perfectly symmetrical and universally desirable, their hair impeccably groomed, their skin soft–looking; even their fingernails were manicured. Everything about them was perfect. Everything except their ratty clothes.

“Who is she?” Surfer Guy asked again.

“Dunno. She bumped her head and now she’s a mute,” the dark–haired one murmured, the corners of her broad, cherry red mouth curving into a condescending smirk.

My drowning victim tried again. “What’s your name?”

“Evangeline,” I finally croaked, trembling.

She nodded once. “I’m Amelie. This is Fiona, Bishop, and over there is my brother, Caden. And that’s Rachel.”

I cleared my throat. “It’s nice to meet you.” Is it really? Stupid response, Evangeline.

“Evangeline,” Amelie said calmly, “don’t worry. We won’t hurt you. What were you doing out in the woods?”

“I don’t … remember,” I stammered.

“Where did you come from?” the girl named Fiona asked. Her voice had an appealing huskiness to it.

“Manhattan … ?” Their blank looks confirmed it meant nothing to them. How did I wander so far from Viggo and Mortimer’s place?

“What do you remember?” Amelie asked softly.

“Not much. I went to sleep in my bed and woke up in a forest, beside a statue. I heard those people by the river and I went to find them. They laughed a bit and then threw you in, and I hid under a bush … I was sure you were dead,” I added.