EMERGING FROM DARKNESS

​POV: Jarrah

​The blinding glare of early morning sun hit my eyes like a physical blow.

​The emergency inflatable craft shot out from the cavern mouth under the towering sandstone cliffs, airborne for one heart-stopping second, before slamming down hard onto the rolling gray waters of Port Phillip Bay.

​Salty sea spray erupted over the bow, washing away the bitter taste of cave dust and gunpowder that had filled my mouth for hours.

​The boat settled into the ocean swells, bobbing rhythmically on the wide, open water. Behind us, high up on the coastal bluff, a massive column of thick black smoke was rising into the pale blue sky. Kilsyth Manor was gone, its historic stone walls caved in on themselves, buried in a massive sinkhole of its own destruction.

​I didn't care about the manor. I didn't care about the smoke.

​I dropped the outboard tiller, turning immediately to the floor of the boat.

​Malia was lying on her side against the rubber pontoon, trembling violently. The freezing temperatures of the subterranean river had caught up with her; her skin was deathly pale, her lips tinged a faint, terrifying shade of blue. Her bloody hands were clutched tightly against her chest, her body shivering in deep, painful spasms.

​"Malia," I rasped, dropping to my knees beside her.

​I pulled off my heavy tactical jacket, dropping it over her upper body, then leaned down and lifted her into my lap. She felt so light, so impossibly fragile in my arms, yet her eyes flickered open, meeting mine with that same fierce, unbreakable light that had kept her alive in the dark.

​"Jarrah..." she whispered, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely form the word. "We... we made it?"

​"We made it," I said, my voice breaking slightly as I wrapped my arms around her, rocking her gently, trying desperately to pour my own body heat into her freezing frame. "It's over, Malia. You're safe."

​In the distance, the low, heavy thrum of twin rotor blades began to beat against the morning air.

​I looked up toward the northern horizon. A black twin-engine Calaby Security medical helicopter was cutting through the morning mist, flying low over the bay, its searchlights sweeping across the water. They had spotted us. The chopper altered its course, banking hard toward our floating craft, the downwash from its rotors whipping the surface of the sea into a white spray.

​A heavy winch line dropped from the open side door of the helicopter, carrying a rescue swimmer in a bright orange drysuit down toward the water.

​"They're here," I murmured down to her.

​Malia reached up with a weak, trembling hand, her iron-bound wrist resting against my neck. Her small fingers brushed over my jawline, her touch light as a feather, yet it sent a sharp electric charge straight into my heart.

​"Don't let go," she whispered, her eyes pleading, raw and completely exposed. "Please... don't leave me."

​A muscle jumped in my jaw. I tightened my hold around her waist, burying my face into the wet curve of her shoulder, breathing in the scent of rain and salt on her skin.

​"Never," I swore, the promise tearing out from the deepest, darkest corner of my soul. "I am never letting you go again."

​The rescue swimmer hit the boat with a splash, shouting instructions over the deafening roar of the helicopter overhead, but I barely heard him.

​Ten minutes later, we were inside the warm, humming cabin of the medical chopper.

​The medics immediately descended upon us, draping thick thermal blankets over Malia’s shoulders, attempting to hook up IV lines and assess her hypothermia. But when one of the paramedics tried to gently pull her away from me to lie down on the central gurney, I snapped.

​"Leave her!" I growled, my hand locking like a vise around the medic's wrist, my eyes flashing with a violent, animalistic warning that made the man instantly freeze and step back.

​"Jarrah... it's okay," Malia murmured weakly from inside her cocoon of blankets.

​I didn't listen. I sat down on the metal floor of the helicopter, pulling her small, wrapped body straight into my lap, locking my arms around her waist, pinning her flush against my chest. I refused to let an inch of space exist between us. Not now. Not ever again.

​She let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure relief, resting her head against my chest, her iron-bound hands coming up to clutch the front of my shirt. I rested my chin on top of her head, my hand gently stroking her wet hair, feeling her slow, steady heart beating in perfect sync with mine.

​The helicopter leaned into a steep bank, turning away from the burning ruins of Kilsyth Manor and heading toward the Melbourne skyline.

​I looked down at her face, watching her eyelids flutter shut as exhaustion finally claimed her. The terror was behind us. The blood had been shed. But as I held her tight against my pounding heart, looking out at the endless blue horizon, a dark, icy sensation began to crawl back up my spine.

​My satellite phone, shoved deep inside my vest pocket, began to vibrate against my ribcage.

​I reached down with one hand, careful not to disturb Malia, and pulled the encrypted device out. The tiny screen flashed with an incoming priority signal from an unregistered international line.

​I swiped the screen to answer and brought the phone to my ear, keeping my voice down to a harsh whisper. "Speak."

​A slow, distorted voice came through the static, a voice that made every drop of blood in my body turn to solid ice.

​"Did you really think Alastair was working alone, Jarrah? Check her left wrist. Look under the iron cuff."

​My breath hitched in my throat. I slowly lowered the phone, my heart pounding violently against my ribs as I looked down at Malia’s left wrist. Slowly, carefully, I pushed back the thick iron band of the cuff.

​Engraved directly into her pale skin, freshly branded into the flesh beneath the iron, was a tiny, intricate silver symbol.

​A symbol I recognized all too well.

​The mark of the Syndicate.