Ilyan Read online

  Ilyan

  Rebecca Ethington

  Market Street Books

  Text Copyright ©2018 by Rebecca Ethington

  The Imdalind Series, characters, names, and related indicia are trademarks and © of Rebecca Ethington.

  The Imdalind Series Publishing rights © Rebecca Ethington

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published by Market Street Books LLC

  No Part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For Information regarding permission, write to:

  Rebecca Ethington – permissions@ Rebecca Ethington.com

  Copyediting by C&D Editing

  Production Management by Market Street Books

  Cover Design by Duck and Bicycle Productions

  Ebook ISBN - 978-0-9964632-8-7

  Printed in USA

  This Edition, November 2016

  Created with Vellum

  For You

  I Told You I Could Do It

  Contents

  A Note From The Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  The King of Imdalind is Arriving

  About the Author

  Other Books by Rebecca Ethington

  Need More Magic?

  A Spark of Vengeance

  A Note From The Author

  Thank you for being loyal fans of Imdalind, and of Ilyan! I am pleased to bring you this book as an additional installment of Joclyn’s Imdalind Series. Taking place during a 15 years gap in book seven, Crown of Cinders, this book has been written at the request of many fans, and follows Ilyan on an unlikely adventure.

  It is highly recommended that you have completed The Imdalind Series before venturing into Ilyan’s story.

  Want more Imdalind? Make sure to check out the first chapter of a new series, THE KING OF IMDALIND, in which Ryland finds his own.

  Releasing May 2018, Book one, A Spark of Vengeance, is available for preorder now!

  1

  What happens when you die without memory of who you are?

  What if there is no life to flash before your eyes and remind you of all that you have done, and all that you have? Instead, would it flash in a strobe of white and black as your mind pulled from the large abyss of nothing?

  That had to be it.

  It would explain why the rhythmic flashes of light and dark filled my mind, attempting to pull memory and a life from someone that didn’t exist anymore. I watched the light, the brilliant nothing of my memory staccatoed by the same image of blood and stone, before it flashed again to nothing.

  A life of nothing cemented by the image of my death.

  The vision was surpassed only by the smell of blood, the feel of the cold, wet fluid uncomfortable as it dried against my skin.

  I felt it all, everything heightened as my mind tried to find something, anything, to cling to. But there is no reason to stay if there is no life to cling to anymore.

  Was it worth waiting to remember? Perhaps, it would just be easier to be swallowed by the light.

  If only the hand would let go and let me slip into that calm abyss that was waiting for me.

  I could feel it clinging to mine, the touch large and bulky, and not the gentle touch I was used to. There was too much weight to it, it didn't fit my hand correctly.

  It didn't belong there.

  I didn't want it there. But I couldn't get rid of it.

  It wasn’t right. It wasn’t what I was used to.

  Used to. Something familiar.

  My heart thrummed at a dangerous pace as the lights above me continued to flash, bright lights that pulsed against eyelids. The more the light became real, the more the smell of blood began to bombard me. The aroma of alcohol and iodine came next, then the tiny prick of a needle before it plunged into my arm.

  I wanted to scream at that, but I didn’t move. My mind danced as I clung to the soft flesh of the unfamiliar hand, trying to place it, to pull at the shard of what I was sure was memory.

  There was nothing but this foreign hand, holding tight as though they were afraid I would slip away.

  Slip away into the bright nothing.

  The faded noises grew louder as the hand pressed tight against me, trying to get my attention, the touch more frightened than before.

  I wanted to respond. I wanted to yell and tell this faceless person that their hand was wrong, but nothing came. Nothing but the lights, and the smell of the blood, and the low rumble of voices that ebbed and flowed like the static of the sea.

  Men and women spoke over each other in a language that was both foreign and familiar. I knew I shouldn't understand it, and yet I did.

  "Can you hear me, sir?" The woman’s voice was a hiss of a snake against the shouts about heart rate and blood pressure and a million other things that slowly let me piece together where I was.

  Although I didn't know how I was here, I did know why.

  I was dying.

  "Clear."

  Her hand squeezed mine before it left, replaced by a heavy weight against my chest, the pressure buzzing before my body filled with white hot heat.

  A pulse of fire ran through my veins, arching through my body as I bent in two. The electric jolt buzzed in my ears, the brilliant white of a life I didn’t remember illuminating like a photographic negative, the shadow of a girl whispering into my mind.

  The image was blue and green, the woman’s face discolored as the nothing that swallowed my life kept it hidden from me.

  She faded as the electricity did, the shock of the machine leaving me warm and somehow comfortable.

  "Sir," the same voice came again, the frenzy in the unseen woman’s voice increasing the same octave as those behind her. "Sir, can you hear me?.” Another pause. “I'm not getting a response."

  Her hand squeezed against mine once more, sending a pain through my chest as I fought to pull away. But I didn't move. I was stuck with her hand in mine.

  It was still wrong.

  It was all wrong.

  The words screamed inside of me, my heart clenching in anger that someone was touching me in this intimate way.

  I knew at once that it was not something I would permit just anyone to do. It was not something that I would let anyone do.

  It was the wrong fingers, the wrong touch, the wrong voice. It was all wrong.

  Wrong because it didn't belong to her.

  Her.

  The woman whose shadowed face was locked inside of my memories. Locked inside of me.

  As if the mysterious woman heard my terror, the touch of her palm against mine left before a sudden shift in my body weight told me we were turning, turning into another unseen hall.

  The steady thunk-thunk-thunk of what I was sure was wheels against linoleum drowned out the voices for a moment, the sound accompanied by rubber soles squeaking against the hard floor.

  "His blood pressure is still dropping," the voice of the woman beside me said in the same agitation.

  "Prepare again." This time it was a man's voice, a deep cough of a sound that barked above me before the heavy weight pressed against my chest once more. I expected the same
pulse of heat to buzz through my veins as it had before, but instead of a warm flood, it was a firestorm of electricity that rammed into me. It hit every nerve and jolted every muscle. My back arched as I lifted from whatever I was laying on, the body that I had previously been unaware of coming to life in a wave of pain.

  Everything hurt. Everything screamed. I didn’t care. I only focused on the dark, waiting for that same shadowed image of the girl, desperately hoping to see more.

  It was only a spark of her smile before she was gone, drowned by the noises that erupted around me.

  Beeping, buzzing, yelling.

  The same cold pressure hit against my chest and I wanted to yell at them to stop, to stop the pain. I couldn’t bat them away. I couldn't move. It was as though a heavy weight was on top of me. Hindering everything.

  It didn't matter, the pain was worth it. Worth it to see the shadow of a memory that told me my life before was more than blood smeared on a rock.

  "Clear."

  Electricity rammed into me again, stronger than before. Hotter. More painful. There was no shadow of a memory this time, it was only fire as it ripped through me, my bones and flesh ripping into millions of splinters.

  The pain was familiar. Although I didn’t understand why, I screamed.

  I screamed in a roar of agony that exploded from me as though it had been bottled for centuries.

  It couldn't be from me, this agonizing yell.

  This sound of heartbreak and loss.

  It was, however. As the sound began to fade into sobs, I knew why. It was the last thing I felt before I died.

  "We've got him," the same deep male voice rumbled over the cacophony as the rocking motions of the world came to a stop, "Let's clean this blood off and see what we are looking at."

  Blood.

  It was there, spread over rock. It was here covering me, the scent of it so strong it bathed the air.

  The woman's hand returned with a gentle tug, the touch sending my heart into a desperate flutter of agitation. I wanted to shake the emotion away, to shake her away, to force away the touch of her skin. But I was still trapped under an invisible weight as I lay there, warm water running over my skin in rivers, dripping down my sides. It hit against the hard linoleum in splashes that echoed in my ears, I could almost see the bloodied water.

  See the red against jagged rock...

  It was the same. The same sound...

  The last thing I heard.

  The sound. The image.

  The emotion.

  It was familiar.

  Just like the lost touch of her hand.

  Familiar and forgotten.

  "There is nothing here..." A lone voice broke through the sound of water and stone, pulling me from the haunting familiarity to a new terror I didn't understand.

  "What do you mean?"

  "There is no wound, sir..." the same voice came again. "There is nothing here. He has lots of scars, but nothing's there. No cuts."

  "Check for one of those bites!" Someone yelled, the panic rippling over everything.

  "Sir," the woman's voice said again, a frightened shake coloring her tone as she tugged at my hand. "Sir? Can you hear me?"

  Fighting the need to pull away from her, I lay there, hoping that just like the blood, just like the touch of her hand, something would happen that would remind me of who I was, of what I was.

  Of what had happened.

  Of what they were talking about. Because I understood none of it.

  Heart in my ears, I listened to my pulse, the sound perfectly matching the electronic beeping of a machine beside me.

  It was steady, slow, like a metronome, or an old dance instructor with a cane who scolds in Russian. They were all things I didn't fully remember, I wasn’t even sure if they were my memories. I clung to them like they were, desperate for something that was mine. Like a memory from your childhood, or a dream you can't quite hold onto, it didn’t feel real.

  It's what everything was.

  Every memory.

  Every thought.

  Something familiar and yet not quite there.

  Just like her.

  She haunted me. Called to me. Even though I knew nothing about her other than that she existed.

  Somehow, she existed.

  Although the bed I lay on had come to a stop minutes before, I was anything but still. Needles plunged into my body, sensors were attached to my chest, tiny hoses placed in my nose and who knew where else, but I still couldn’t move. I just lay, listening as the panic decreased into hushed whispers I could barely make out.

  All I could do was lay there. Listening to the sound of my heart echo back to me in an electronic beep.

  Then there was nothing but the beeping.

  Even the gentle, inferior, touch of the woman had gone.

  Something deep inside screamed to run, to force myself to fly from this place. It twisted up my spine as if the feeling itself was trying to control me. Nothing happened. I lay there, staring into the red tinted light behind my eyelids until the low rumble of voices returned.

  "It doesn't make any sense, sir," a low voice mumbled in that same quick staccato tongue.

  The sweaty aromas of several people flooded the air around me, their hushed debate smothering the sound of my mechanical heartbeat. "If it is not his then...."

  The voice cut off, and the next thing I knew those same unwanted fingers wrapped around mine, tugging and pulling. This time, however, the motion didn't feel like it was meant in comfort.

  I attempted to turn toward whoever was holding onto me, but still, my body refused to respond.

  I was, however, able to get my hand away in one quick movement. The motion wasn't completely voluntary.

  A loud gasp followed the force of the movement, the single sound opening the gates to a slathering of voices, all overlapping and panicked.

  "He's awake."

  "But he hasn’t moved since..."

  "Someone call the recovery team."

  I barely focused on them, not caring enough about what they were saying to do so. I was simply happy that the unwanted hand did not return.

  "Sir?" The same woman spoke again, her low voice right beside my ear, drowning out whatever conversation that was happening behind her. "Sir? Can you open your eyes? Can you look at me? Can you hear me?"

  It was a barrage of questions, but I only focused on the first one. The first request.

  Can I open my eyes?

  I was sure that I could.

  I had to have done so a million times before, all of my life... my life.

  I didn't know what that entailed. I had an idea how it ended, in a splash of blood against stone… but beyond that… I didn't know how old I was. I didn't know how much time I had already experienced. How much time I had already lost.

  Was I a child?

  Was I an adult?

  The question confused me more, and made the loss of the woman that I was longing for that much more of an enigma.

  Was she my mother?

  Was she my wife?

  She was missing, that was the only thing that mattered.

  I just wish I knew why.

  Hands tensed against my chest, I focused on my eyes. Focused on that tiny sliver of skin that ran over them. I could hear the voices in the background, but I didn't really care what they were saying.

  I just wanted to see.

  Slowly, my eyes began to open, fluttering and flickering as a flood of red light poured in. It pulsed against my skull, and rattled my brain, but I didn't stop.

  Stubbornly, I opened them all the way, staring into the bright lights directly above me as I waited for the world to come into focus.

  Stubborn.

  At least I knew that I was stubborn.

  "Hello."

  The same woman who had been trying so desperately to get my attention before spoke again, but this time her voice was calmer, pleased.

  I didn't look at her, even when her hand grabbed mine. I lay still, feeling th
e pain of her hand against mine and stared straight up as the long fluorescent light and textured ceiling drifted in and out of focus.

  I didn't want to turn to her, I didn't want to see who this foreigner was, to see who was trying to take her place. But I needed to see more than this light, I needed to see everything.

  The bones in my neck ached as my head flopped to the side, long hair sticking to my skin.

  She was an older lady with kind wrinkles around her eyes and wisps of grey speckled through her dark hair. Laugh lines merged together as she smiled, a deep look of relief peeking through her dark green eyes. I wanted to say she was calm, that she was happy. But there was something else there.

  A panic that she was trying to hide.

  "Hello there, Mr. Blue Eyes," she said, her voice a little bit louder this time.

  Doctors, nurses, and whoever else stood behind her came into focus, eyes as wide as the woman who I now recognized as a nurse. The older man in the middle attempted to contain a grimace as he stepped forward, his long white doctor's coat swinging behind him.

  "Sir," he said, the older nurse moving out of the way for him. "We are so glad to see you awake. I am Dr. Sirko, I have been assigned to your care. Can you hear me?"

  I didn't know if I could speak yet, so I jerked my head up, hoping that was the right response for yes.

  It seemed right.

  "Good, good," he said, I guess I had chosen correctly. "Do you know where you are?"

  This one was a little harder. I stared at him, eyes narrowing as I thought about how to respond, or even if I could.

  "You are in Medicom in Kiev."

  "Kiev?" I asked, the word coming on its own, all scratched and broken as it forced its way out of my throat. I was surprised any sound came out at all with how dry and raw it felt.