Reclamation, p.1
Reclamation, page 1
Reclamation
Book 3 in the Of Brimstone & Halos Saga
The Of Brimstone & Halos Saga
Book Three
Isadora Brown
Contents
1. Everly
2. Walton
3. Everly
4. Walton
5. Everly
6. Walton
7. Everly
8. Walton
9. Everly
10. Walton
11. Walton
12. Everly
13. Walton
14. Walton
15. Everly
16. Walton
17. Everly
18. Walton
19. Everly
20. Walton
21. Everly
22. Walton
23. Everly
24. Walton
25. Everly
26. Walton
27. Everly
28. Walton
29. Everly
30. Walton
31. Everly
32. Walton
Newsletter Information
Did You Like Reclamation?
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Everly
I stumbled through the corridor, my hand scraping along the wall as I went. It felt like the whole place was breathing—tight and warm and too close. My side ached with every step, sharp little jabs that made it hard to keep moving, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.
Something coppery lingered on my tongue.
Blood, maybe?
Or a dream?
It was all so jumbled—like someone had taken my thoughts and shaken them in a jar. I blinked hard, trying to see straight. The lights above me buzzed like flies, their soft hum crawling into my ears, making everything feel even less real.
I couldn’t remember how I got here. Not fully. Just… flashes. Hands grabbing me. A voice I didn’t recognize telling me to be still. A prick of a needle. Then—nothing.
My stomach turned, but I kept going. Panic fluttered like a bird in my chest, its wings slamming into my ribs, begging me to move faster. I didn’t know where I was going—but forward felt better than staying still.
A shadow moved just ahead, and I froze. My breath hitched. Was that one of them? A guard? A demon? Someone worse?
I didn’t wait to find out.
I forced my legs to keep going, even though they felt like they were made of soaked wool.
Then—her.
Elise.
Her voice bloomed in my mind, so warm and certain. “You have to feel it, Ev. The Protection Rune is all about intention.”
I could see her so clearly—kneeling beside me in the bunker, her braid a little messy, the golden torchlight catching on her freckles. She always smelled like lavender and chalk dust. I clung to that memory like it was something sacred.
“It’s not just about drawing,” she said, her hands guiding mine across the stone, “it’s about believing you can.”
I tried to believe now. I really did.
But nothing happened.
No hum of energy, no glow, no warmth in my chest. Just a tight, empty ache that made my eyes sting. It was like every rune, every lesson, had been scraped clean from my soul.
Then again, I didn't have my Runes. They were… behind. Did Walton have them?
No, I didn't want to think about him.
The footsteps behind me grew louder—closer.
“Elise?” I whispered, like maybe she’d appear if I said her name aloud. Maybe she hadn’t left me. Maybe this was a test, or a trick, and she’d be waiting just around the next corner, arms outstretched like always.
But all I had was the echo of her voice and the rush of fear pounding in my ears.
Then I saw it—the end of the hallway. A door. Light poured through the cracks like spilled honey. It looked warm. Safe. Free.
I didn’t know where it led. Maybe it was another trap. But something in me—something small and stubborn—hoped. Hoped it was sunlight. Hoped Elise was on the other side.
I ran for it, even though my legs trembled, and my vision blurred.
Because if I didn’t run toward hope, what else was there?
The light spilled through the cracks like sunlight after storm clouds—bright and golden and good. My chest swelled. I reached for the door handle with both hands, even though they were shaking so badly I could hardly close my fingers around it. Just a little further. Just a few more steps and I’d be out. I’d be free.
I could almost feel the wind on my face. I imagined it—cool, fresh, like the air near the bunker’s vent shafts after a storm. Not this thick, chemical buzz that clung to everything here.
I turned the knob. It stuck for a second—old and stubborn—and then gave way with a loud, creaky click. The door opened. And beyond it… another gate. This one metal, rusted and warped, but it was outside. There was air. There was sky, I think. I didn’t care how ruined it was—I just wanted to breathe.
I stepped forward.
But before I could take another breath, a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
Hard.
It yanked me backward like a fish on a hook.
“No—!” I cried out, twisting, fighting to tear away. But whoever it was—he was strong. Stronger than anyone should be.
“Where do you think you’re going, little lamb?”
His voice was all grit and cruelty, like sandpaper scraped across stone. I turned my head and saw him—a guard, maybe. Or something worse. His clothes were torn and stained, and his eyes were like old knives—dull but deadly.
“Let me go!” I shouted, but my voice cracked right in the middle, which only made him grin.
“Aww.” He sneered, leaning close. I could smell smoke and something sour on his breath. “You think you’re special? You’re nothing but a lost little Bunker Rat.”
He slammed me against the wall.
I gasped—pain lanced through my shoulder, hot and sharp. The whole hallway spun. I wanted to cry, or scream, or both, but I gritted my teeth.
“Everly Harrington,” he said, like my name was something disgusting. “They said you’d break easy. I guess they were right.”
“No,” I whispered. “You don’t know me.”
But my body was shaking. My knees threatened to buckle.
I tried to pull away again, digging my heels in.
“Get off me!” I shouted, louder this time, but—
He didn’t flinch. He just grinned wider and pulled something from his belt.
Psshhht.
Cold spray burst across my face. My skin sizzled like it had touched ice and fire at the same time. My eyes burned. I cried out as the world around me turned to shadows and smears.
“No—please—” My knees gave out. I fell, or maybe he let me.
The last thing I saw was his face hovering over mine, blurry and twisted with smug satisfaction.
Then everything went dark.
Like a candle blown out in the wind.
I jolted awake, breath catching in my throat like I’d just been pulled up from underwater. Everything felt… heavy. Like my limbs were filled with sand. The lights above me flickered faintly, casting strange shapes on the ceiling—shapes that moved when I blinked, like they were watching me.
A soft humming filled the air. Machines, maybe. Nothing familiar. Nothing warm.
I was lying on something cold and hard. A bed, I thought, but not like the ones back home with their wool blankets and creaky iron frames. This one was metal—smooth, sterile, wrong.
I sat up slowly, my arms trembling with the effort. The gown I wore was pale and paper-thin, the kind of thing someone else would choose for you when they’d already taken everything else.
My hands flew to my arms.
I felt… pain.
Red, raw burns where the symbols should’ve been. Like they’d been scrubbed away—violently, intentionally.
I stared down, blinking hard. Maybe I was still dreaming.
“What have they done to me?” I whispered, but my voice didn’t sound right. It sounded too small, too broken.
I tried to remember. Tried to piece it together like one of those jigsaw puzzles we used to do when the power was out. But every time I reached for a memory, it crumbled.
Faces blurred. Voices overlapped. But one image stayed sharp.
Elise.
Her back was turned.
She didn’t look back at me.
She left me.
My chest ached like something inside had cracked. I gasped, trying to breathe through the panic that bubbled up, hot and mean.
“No—” I said it out loud this time. “She wouldn’t… she wouldn’t do that.”
But the memory wouldn’t let go. Elise standing so still, so cold, as if I were nothing at all. No apology. No goodbye.
A whisper threaded through the room. It sounded like my own voice, but darker, hollowed out.
“You think you can trust anyone?”
My hands shook as I reached for the edge of the bed, trying to ground myself. But the metal was no comfort.
“Elise,” I whispered again, this time more like a prayer. Maybe she was still coming. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe—maybe.
A machine beeped softly beside me. Too calm. Like it was used to watching people fall apart.
My thoughts spun out again, carried away like leaves in the wind. I saw Elise smiling. Elise laughing. Elise teaching me the Healing Rune. Then—gone. Her hands were in someone else’s. Her eyes weren’t warm anymore.<
Why would you do this to me?
I pressed my hands to my face, willing the tears not to come. But they did anyway—quiet and hot, slipping down over the bruises I hadn’t realized I had.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted her to come back and tell me this was all a dream.
But all I had was this empty room and a terrible, creeping thought I didn’t want to believe:
Maybe she’d never been mine to trust at all.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I even realized they’d fallen. They were warm against my skin, but everything else around me felt cold—cold metal, cold air, cold light. Like this place didn’t even know what comfort was.
I curled my hands into fists and pressed them against my eyes. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to feel this way. But the memories kept pushing through, louder than the machines, louder than my fear.
“Whatcha crying for, angel? You better not be feeling sorry for yourself."
His voice whispered through my thoughts like a breeze—gruff, teasing, familiar.
Walton.
A soft sob escaped me, and I tried to swallow it down. But it was too late. I missed him. So much. It hurt more than anything else—the ache in my chest, sharp and aching all at once, like something inside me was breaking in slow motion.
I could still hear his laugh, low and rough like gravel under boots, but there was warmth in it. It always made me feel steady. Safe. Like maybe—even if everything else fell apart—I’d still be okay if he was near.
Was he okay? I prayed he was. I prayed he was safe.
Did God listen to prayers for demons?
I hoped so.
Demons needed them more than most.
The tiniest flicker of hope sparked inside me. Just a little one, but enough to make me lift my head. Walton was strong—he always had been. He’d fought monsters I couldn’t even name, and he never gave up. He could survive this. I knew he could.
But… would he still want me around?
That thought snuck in quietly, like a shadow curling under the door.
Would he even want to see me after everything? After Elise. After I trusted people I shouldn’t have. After I ended up here, broken and weak and crying in a room that felt more like a prison than anything else.
I remembered the way he looked at me when he talked about betrayal. His voice always got quieter, like it hurt too much to speak too loud. There was something haunted in his eyes, something I never fully understood. But I thought I did now.
I thought maybe I understood too much.
Would he look at me the same way?
Would he think I was just like the people who’d hurt him?
A new kind of ache settled in my chest—sharp and nervous and full of doubt. I didn’t want him to see me like this. Not like this. Crying and trembling and clinging to memories like they were lifelines. He used to tease me when I cried. But he never meant it cruelly.
He used to call me angel. Like it meant something and nothing at the same time.
I wiped at my cheeks, even though more tears came. I could almost feel the brush of his hand against my hair, the warmth of his palm at the small of my back, steady and strong. He always made the chaos quiet. Now it was just noise. Noise and shadows and walls.
I breathed in deep, hoping maybe I’d catch a trace of him in the air—cigarette smoke and dust and that strange kind of warmth that clung to him like a second skin.
But all I smelled was metal. And fear.
“Walton…” I whispered his name like a secret. Like a prayer.
If I could just find him—if he could just find me—maybe we could figure this out. Maybe he’d still see me. Maybe he’d still want to.
But what if… what if he didn’t?
What if he’d already given up?
I curled in tighter on the cold bed, holding onto his memory like it might disappear if I let go for even a second. I didn’t know how much time I had left. Or what was coming next.
But I knew one thing with my whole heart:
If there was even one chance Walton was out there, I had to believe in it.
Because believing in him?
That was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
The door creaked open, and I looked up—just for a second.
But it was enough.
The air changed. Like it knew he was coming.
He stepped inside, and I instantly felt smaller. Like the walls shrank around him. He was tall. Sharp. Wrong in a way I couldn’t explain. His robe was deep black and hung off him like it belonged to something ancient. His hair was dark, slicked back so tightly it looked like it hurt. But it was his eyes that froze me. They were deep—bottomless—and when they locked on me; it felt like being caught in a trap you didn’t see until it was too late.
“I heard you were a feisty one,” he said, voice low and smooth like something poured from a bottle you shouldn’t open.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just knew.
This was Magnus Rex.
His name alone was a warning whispered through prayers back on the road. The kind of name you didn’t even speak too loud anywhere.
He looked at me like I wasn’t a person. Just… a thing. “And let me tell you, little lady,” he drawled, eyes glinting with something I didn’t want to understand, “I did not expect Bunker Rats to be so damn… annoying. Trying to escape? You have more balls than my men."
My heart slammed against my ribs. I wanted to vanish, to curl into the wall and disappear—but I held still. I made myself stay still. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Stand up,” he said.
I didn’t want to. Every part of me screamed no. But I stood anyway. My legs shook so badly I thought I might fall over.
He leaned against the wall like he owned the world. “Now strip.”
The words hit like ice water.
My face burned—hot and mortified and furious all at once. “No,” I said, even though my voice was just a breath.
He laughed. Loud and sharp and awful. “Oh, you’ll do it,” he said, like it was already decided. Like I didn’t even matter in the choice.
I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I was floating outside myself, watching as my hands reached up and pulled the gown over my head. It slipped to the floor with a soft whisper of fabric. The air was freezing, but it wasn’t the cold that made me shiver.
He didn’t touch me. But his eyes did. They trailed across every inch of me, slow and calculating, like I was meat laid out on a table.
“Damn near perfect,” he muttered, like I wasn’t even there. “I’d fetch quite a pretty penny for you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
“Virgin too, I’d bet.”
The words stabbed deeper than anything else could have. I felt sick. Humiliated. Like I was unraveling.
And still—I didn’t cry. Not while he was looking.
He tilted his head, amused. “Well, fuck me,” he said, casual as sin. “I just may keep you for myself.”
I wanted to scream. To hit him. To set the room on fire. But all I could do was glare—hot and burning and full of everything I didn’t know how to say.
He turned to leave, like he’d already decided exactly what would happen next.
“I’ll be seeing you, angel,” he tossed over his shoulder.
The word made something snap inside me. Walton called me that. Not anyone else.
“Don’t call me that!”
It flew from my mouth before I could stop it. My voice cracked, but it didn’t matter. I needed him to know.
He paused. Didn’t even bother turning all the way around.
He just smiled. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want,” he said. “And you’ll like it.”
And then he was gone.
The door slammed shut behind him like a final sentence. Like the end of something I hadn’t even realized was breaking until now.
