Queen to Ashes (Black Dawn Series Book 2)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Queen to Ashes
Part One
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgements
About the Author
HEIR OF LIES
Copyright © Mallory McCartney 2020
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.
Condition of sale
This book was sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN: 978-1-9992547-7-3
The moral right of the author had been asserted.
This was a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and organizations was purely coincidental.
Cover Art by Cora Graphics
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Formatted by Rebecca Garcia at Dark Wish Designs
Map art by Lizard Ink Maps
For everyone who is following their heart and fueling their passions. This is for you.
Part One
Naithe Warrior
Prologue
The Oilean
The sisters knew their world, Daer, had been born from the marrow of nightmares: A flicker of shadows and a drumming of lust was the first sluggish recognition of a memory they had. Their rage was cultivated from the echoes of screams, a private orchestra just for them, building a woven masterpiece—crashing, consuming, inspiring, haunting.
It stirred within them, in this in-between place, and like a vessel, existence and sustenance carried them on. For years, they waited, feeding and growing. The shadows grew, and their minds and bodies did as well. The fear of the world waged, igniting them. Then, in fractured, splintering light, it all changed.
They had been found. No longer just a pulse of darkness. No longer caged. And as that man grinned viciously at them, they knew everything from then on would be different.
The sister that had been once called Lasair tilted her head, ripping herself out of the memory. She inhaled the scents on the wind, a web of stories that she sifted through, searching for the one they sought. Her bloodlust was a wild, burning thing, and she quelled it. They couldn’t win this world if their king made rash decisions. No, they had to play this game of lies and betrayal until they moved their pawns exactly where they needed them, leaving their path clear... Then nothing could stop them.
Hissing in pleasure, her magic flared, burning and consuming: destroying worlds had always been an exchange of energy; even in Daer. The sisters killed and stole the magic of the fey for their master until Daer was nothing but an empty shell and their king had been made invincible.
After the world lay barren, the sisters were sent searching for another world to feed their king and ensure his immortal reign.
Rolling her neck, Lasair’s bones cracked as she walked toward the other Oilean. The wind now hinted at the change of seasons, and she knew they were running out of time, that their king was running out of time.
She stopped, about to snap at the other Oilean that they needed to decide on how they would end Brokk Foster when she felt it. They all froze as they felt the chord snap; the dark magic that had made up Brokk Foster’s living doppelganger was gone. They had carved him, shaped him, broke him... Lasair had banked on the fact that they had never failed before.
Tilting their heads in unison, they felt the dark magic bleed out from Brokk’s doppelganger like a dying star: Strange. For the first time, someone had defeated one of their servants. The sisters shivered against that fading light, growling as the emptiness replaced it. Their beautiful, dangerous creation had been destroyed.
“The girl is stronger than we thought,” the sister to the far left hissed, looking behind them to where the false king’s city lay. “But not strong enough to face us. She wouldn’t stand a chance.”
They paced, ashes softly floating around them as the ground became scorched. But one sister stalled, looking to the horizon as if seeing past the trees, past the flickering shadows in the forest, to where the demons that resided within their land grew and flourished.
“We must do this ourselves, sisssters.” They stopped, looking to her as she rolled her neck, bones popping and cracking, her pale skin drawn. “Emory Fae must be stopped. They all must be stopped. Our King left us with the task of preparing this world for him. We have wasted time—no more spells. No more hiding. Not while they can still find out the truth.”
Whispers cut through the wind, and Lasiar tilted her head, breathing it in. This world would be theirs. This world, its power, would be harnessed.
The three sisters started to giggle—first a hiccup of a laugh here and there—until soon the forest was filled with their madness; and in cracking bones and ripping of sinew, their limbs elongated and grew. The Oilean all looked toward the Draken Mountains and the sinister force that had seeded there: They shot off, loping through the fading light, sparks chasing at their heels. Lasiar led the way.
In the fading daylight, she hissed in pleasure as night started to sweep in. The woods blurred around her, and she started to count down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until she sank her teeth into their necks. Until she would kill Emory Fae and Brokk Foster.
Chapter One
Adair
Adair Stratton tugged his button-down jacket tighter around him, trying to block the wind from his lookout post. The vastness of the sky was consuming, a strange energy clinging on the night air. The churning dark clouds cast a purplish hue, bleeding with the softness created from the moon. The stars shone between the pockets, obscuring the scene and making it beautiful.
Far below him, the Ruined City lay in its grave, quiet and still, the broken buildings reminding him of splintered bones. The once thriving capital of Kiero—Sarthaven—was nothing more than a whispered memory to him now. His gaze wandered to the edge of the Draken Mountain range, the wildness of the Noctis woods flourishing, the purple hues of the trees pulsing like gems.
It had taken years to build his kingdom, shackling Kiero in fear. The people that now lived in the Draken Mountains valued their lives and were loyal to him.
Sighing, the darkness in his veins was smothered ever so slightly as he breathed in the crisp air. In this brief and flickeri
ng moment of clarity, his mind wandered to the girl who was locked in the cells of his kingdom, waiting for him: Emory Fae, the Princess of Kiero.
Popping his collar up, he scowled. Under the blanket of night, he could trace back to the man he used to be when Emory had known him-an echo of his humanity. Thinking of her, he could see the splaying of memories come back to life all around him, of his friends, of the Academy. And it was in these sparse moments of lucidity, he allowed himself to remember, relishing it, pushing back that yearning for destruction, pushing back the voices, trying to lock them away.
And like every other night, he lost.
The wind howled, making the edges of his coat and pants tug upward, his hair standing on end from the sudden chill. His heart raced as the smooth voices filled his consciousness.
“Adair, this kingdom is yours. Make her bow, make her bleed... make her pay for what she has done.”
He closed his eyes for a beat, digging his fingernails into his palms.
“Why do you wait? You know what you want. What you have always wanted.”
Images were thrown at him; so quick and enthralling, they swept his breath away: The inky crown, embedded with roses and thorns, lay delicately on top of Emory’s ebony hair. Memphis Carter, the once commander of the Black Dawn Rebellion, bowed, pleading for his life as Adair smirked above him. His darkness had whisked away any trace of rebellion and Emory was by his side as they watched the world continue to burn until it was only them.
Always for them.
Adair snarled, then said, “Leave me alone.”
Their snickers bounced around him, their whispers tugging at his heart.
“Do not falter now, our Mad King. You have come so far, achieved so much. The binds your father tried to keep you in, you broke. The ones the Academy kept you in, you turned to ash.
“We are a team. We know the desires of your soul, how you revel in watching the world shudder in your reign. You have always been more. A reckoning force that no one can stop. Can never stop.”
He became still, his muscles taut. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell a thousand miles away, to where the Academy had stood. Where a boy that once wanted to explore the world and not shackle it had lived.
He knew both were dead.
Ice coursed through his body, spreading through his core faster than he could register. His pulse slowed, the roaring emotions he felt slowing as well. Darkness encased him, pulling him down, down, down: Locking him away, roaring, snarling, and clawing at him.
A slow exhale escaped from between his dry lips, and as he stood, every movement was precise, a predatory grace. Flicking his gaze below him once more, instead of the dark beauty that he was met with earlier, the world around him was bleeding. Dark, black blood gushed from the mountainside, thickly caking the field and the Ruined City. Echoes of screams filled the air, and Adair was reminded of his bloodshed, of his control and power.
“Do not disappoint us, our King.”
The corners of his lips tugged upward as he whispered to the wind, “I won’t.”
Inside, he screamed, ripping at his mind, battering against the iron wall, only to be drowned entirely by it.
He turned, walking back into his world, each step anchoring him to his intentions: Make them bow and make them pay. Make her pay.
He didn’t look as he stepped off the side of the cliff, freefalling. He plummeted, the wind howling, the cool night air stinging his skin. He laughed, relishing in the exhilaration of adrenaline before he was wrenched up, his body breaking down into particles of smoke and darkness.
Cutting through the sky, he didn’t think, he just reacted to the power inside of him, and everything else bled away.
Arching, he sliced through the clouds, moisture collecting around him like glinting crystals before they exploded, and he shifted down, racing toward the mountain range. The moon bathed his path in luminescent light, and it was mere seconds before he glided through the wall, through stone and marble. The smoothness of the throne room’s granite muffling his footfalls and causing the guards on their rotation to jump at his arrival.
“You all seem uneasy,” Adair taunted.
They bowed their heads, their low murmurs cutting over one another.
“My King, we weren’t expecting you.”
“We have never suffered losses like the ones the rebels inflicted in the stadium last week. We should spill the heir’s blood now—in retaliation, my King.”
“What is our course of action?”
“Enough!” he snapped, his cold voice bouncing off the walls and silencing them instantly. He looked towards his throne, smooth, each curve carved precisely, the bones of monsters and humans long forgotten inlaid to rest in it.
Taking a steadying breath, he studied each guard, before stating, “You will do your duties and leave the Rebellion to me. As for the girl, bring her tomorrow, along with the other prisoner. Each decision I make has a purpose. Never forget that.”
Shifting uneasily, the guards paled in the soft light, swallowing nervously. Their silence was answer enough.
Beginning to pace, he snapped, “Now, leave me. Return to your stations.”
Bowing low to him, Adair watched them leave, each footfall a distant tick against his mind until the stillness of the night filled him, and he was alone once more.
Striding forward, he threw himself on his throne made of bones, legs hanging over the edges, hands interlaced behind his head. Far above him, the stars glinted down, the sky showing him the thousands of uncharted miles in between space and time.
And he thought of the girl who had defied it all.
Chewing his lip, he started to count down the seconds, the minutes, and the hours until he was alone with Emory. And they would both see what side of him would decide her fate.
Chapter Two
Emory
All she could hear was buzzing. Tight, unrelenting buzzing. The world dipped, and she was a ghost amongst the living.
Her mind screamed that she was going into shock as the color drained from her skin, as her limbs trembled harder. Her body betrayed her for the briefest of seconds as Adair looked at her hungrily, his dark gaze ravaging her.
The room seemed to tilt, and her mind felt thick and constricted. The bloodied sword was still in her hand, and Brokk’s body splayed out lifelessly between them: Life and Death. Love and Loss. Light and Dark. This is the divide her life had taken, and one that she was completely and utterly lost in. Suffocated in.
What had she done?
What. Had. She. Done?
Before Emory could take another look, to convince herself that it wasn’t him—it couldn’t have been—a strong hand gripped her arm and Adair said something she didn’t register. Then, she was ushered out with the promise of tomorrow on his gaunt lips, and the burly guard led her away from the king.
The door shut, sealing away the gory scene.
Breath lodging in her throat, Emory tried to adjust to the world around her. It was numbing, her senses overloaded, the bustle of Adair’s world seeming too sharp and loud as they moved through it. Her pulse roared, and beneath the grime and blood she held on, trying not to give in to the panic tearing through her.
Walk. Breathe. Survive. Make him believe you want him. Then end him. Walk. Breathe. Survive. Survive.
The guard was silent as he pulled her down the twisting hallways, past the prying eyes and chasing whispers.
She could barely register what had happened. And again, that mind-numbing ringing droned out her surroundings.
In the arena, her adrenaline had smeared his edges, and he was just a deranged king on a broken throne. But in those few moments in his chamber, during their charged verbal dance, she had been so overwhelmed because his presence had unravelled a part of her long forgotten. That out of anyone else, he had brought snippets of blurry memories to surface: The feeling of recognition, of friendship. Of betrayal, of loyalty, of confusion and pain.
Swallowing hard, she walked onward, pushing the
king from her mind; allowing that heavy nothingness to blanket her, to numb her further.
***
The bath water poured into the clawed tub and churned, making several eddies in the water. Standing rigidly, Emory watched the spout gush. Too fast. Too loud. The frothy surface reflected the paint flecking the gold and red of the walls. She blinked, turning slowly.
In her chambers, a fire blazed in its hearth, bookcases lined the stone wall, and a huge four-poster bed waited for her. Flush to the sidewall, a closet full of clothing beckoned to her as well. It was lavish, a place fit for someone the Mad King potentially wanted to keep alive. Not for a prisoner. She shook with adrenaline.
For the time being, he had believed her.
Clenching her hands, Emory looked down to see they were caked with blood. Clawing at her skin, she tried to scrub it off, only making it smear. All Emory could see was the flash of steel, the spattering of red, and the crunch of bone. Brokk’s golden eyes, echoing of memories and loyalty before everything distorted and twisted.
A strangled sound bubbled from her lips as she slid to the floor, not caring about holding her broken pieces together anymore.
They had brought Brokk in. The same curve of his lips, same flecked golden eyes. At first glance, it had been, without a doubt, him. All it took was one second: His golden hair turned black; his eyes bled into nothingness, and his edges blurred. Her instinct had screamed imposter. Anger had filled her, and she remembered seeing red. How dare someone try to use the illusion of Brokk against her!
But doubt now lay thickly on her mind and heart. Was she one hundred percent certain that it hadn’t been Brokk? She was living in a world where magic and deception intertwined, and Emory knew she was vulnerable. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath.
The sword had felt like lead in her hands, and with a flash of steel glinting in the firelight, she had killed him.
Standing to turn the water off, her vision twisted and churned. Nausea swept over Emory as she barely made it to the toilet before her stomach emptied. Cold sweat coated her body as she retched and retched.