Queen to Ashes (Black Dawn Series Book 2) Page 12

  “Tuca, you sly old bas—”

  The ability to move had completely departed as he watched Kiana swirl and spin in a sea of blossoming petals, their golds and silvers painting her skin with their shimmering elegance. Everywhere she touched turned to that beautiful will, her words dying as they turned to laughter. She locked eyes with him, and her smile was brighter than any star, any light.

  Shock rippled through Brokk as beside her a stocky man stood, his elated features enhancing his angular face, his low hat shadowing his eyes. Two curled fangs dipped over his lower lip, and his weathered skin was covered in patches of black fur, his inky hair following suit.

  “Who exactly are you?” Tuca’s voice was clipped.

  Those magical leaves disappeared in an instant. “I could ask the same,” Brokk snapped.

  Kiana stepped in between them. “Brokk, this is Tuca, an old friend of mine.”

  The man chuckled. “Old friend? More like your smuggler contact.” Tuca assessed him now, his yellow eyes narrowing in mistrust. “I am the guardian of these borders, of what used to be a quiet town of Meer. Though like most, I have been in hiding, but this doesn’t mean I don’t keep an eye on things in these woods.”

  “Why follow us then?” Kiana asked.

  “Because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being deceived. It’s been some time since fey have decided to drift so far.” Tuca flinched at that, and Kiana cleared her throat.

  “We have other business.”

  He winked. “Kiana, darling, you know how I feel about your secrets. But, this time, spare me the torture. I thought you to be dead.”

  “Tuca, we both know I can’t go into the details of that. Now get to the point. What do you want?” The lightness from the moments before disappeared, an edge filling her voice: Kind and dangerous. A warning.

  He bristled. “Kiana, you know me too well. We are survivors. It has been hard these past years. The magic...has changed.”

  “Obviously.”

  Tuca growled, stepping toward her. In a cracking of bone and blood, Brokk shifted and was snarling in his face, Kiana standing beside him. His golden fur was raised, as he snapped his jaws again, the warning clear.

  Tuca whispered, “Kiana, what have you done?”

  Her blades were flashing-Brokk barely had time to register what was happening. Tuca bowed, charging at her, teeth elongating. Brokk lunged, trying to get in front of Kiana. His mind went numb as his gut screamed to trust Kiana. He had no other choice.

  Hearing about the fey’s fighting tactics was one thing...seeing it completely floored Brokk. Kiana was a blur—-one second unsheathing her blades and then disappearing in a blinding light. Kiana reappeared behind Tuca, slicing behind his knees as he fell to them. Brokk bayed just as Tuca looked up to him and smiled. He felt the blow rip through him, throwing him backwards.

  Get up. Up. Up. Blood filled his mouth, the fire roaring in his body, but Brokk made himself move, despite the fact he could barely feel his limbs. Rolling over, Kiana screamed as Tuca’s boot connected with her shoulder; a sickening popping sounded at the impact. She rolled, baring her teeth, pointed ears slipping through her silver hair. Charging, her knives were extensions of her arms.

  Rolling, Brokk dug his paws into the earth as the smuggler roared, Kiana’s knife sliding in between his shoulder blades, only to quickly pull back, black blood dripping from its point. A flicker, that’s all it was, his pain, his confusion and adrenaline rolling into one.

  Kiana was slammed back, Tuca’s hand wrapping around her slender throat. “Give it to me, and I may let you live.” Kiana spit in Tuca’s face which only made him press harder. Brokk was almost there, and he wove around the tree trunks. Tuca leaned over. “The magic, it’s mine.”

  Brokk leapt, wind howling through his senses before he slammed to the ground, his mammoth maws grabbing the man’s back, and he tore down. Kiana dropped, gasping, and all Brokk could taste was death. Rotting flesh filled his mouth as he let go, wrinkling his nose.

  Tuca laughed as he turned slowly. “I will start with you.” It was that voice, cold and eerily thrilling that froze him. Flashes of knives in the dimly lit room. The water on the walls. And always their giggles in the night. Hidden in the shadows.

  The man tilted his head slowly, whispering, “Is there something you would like to say?”

  Whoever Tuca had been, he was gone. This empty shell, this puppet, was the Oilean’s dark magic. Fear immobilized him, snaking into his spine, clutching his heart. Even now, their grip was deep, and he felt like he was once again strapped on to that table, blood draining from him as they watched and waited. Feeding him lie after lie after lie.

  Tuca’s lips curled over his teeth, and Brokk watched in horror as the man’s skin shed off his body. Black smoke poured from his skeletal nostrils and empty eye sockets as the remaining image of Tuca was devoured by the smoke. What emerged was far from human, but a monster Brokk was familiar with: The dabarnes.

  When the Academy fell all those years ago, they had raged around him. Brokk remembered the blood and the broken screams of his friends as one-by-one they were slaughtered.

  Blinking, he dug his claws into the earth as the dabarne stalked toward him, its grey bald skin stretched too tight over its lanky serpentine body. Its yellow eyes shifted between Kiana and Brokk as if deciding who to attack first. Growling low, the dabarne bared its teeth, salvia dripping thickly from its maws. Brokk tensed as the monster lunged at him, but he was a fraction too slow.

  Kiana charged when she saw the massive maws close around Brokk’s midriff.

  He heard cracking; his howl cut through his mind, and there was pressure again and snapping as he felt his ribs shatter, puncturing his lungs. His body tried to heal itself, but there was something wrong; his ability was faltering. Warmth spread through his side as pain made his vision tip. He couldn’t breathe or move.

  Brokk’s body was flipped, and he stared into those yellow eyes just as his paw connected with the dabarne’s chest, his nails shredding through the paper skin. Pain erupted through Brokk’s entire core, but he closed his eyes against the sudden silver light blinding him. The pressure left, and he heard Kiana’s voice float around him.

  “Hold on. Please, hold on.”

  Brokk’s breath caught, and then he passed out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emory

  Staring at the door for a solid minute—throat tightening, palms sweating, and heart pounding—Emory wondered if it was the right decision coming here. Ainthe was sheathed across her back, the leather digging into her bruises, her chest plate suffocating her. Her hands clenched and unclenched. Inhaling, she breathed in the traces of smoke and burning metal. But before she could turn around, Emory raised her chin and knocked.

  A deep echo boomed as the steady beat on the anvil against metal stopped. Swallowing, she nervously glanced across the cavernous room. Adair permitted her to see Riona alone, but after this morning, she had earned it.

  After a minute, the door swung inward, revealing a sweaty but smiling Riona. Her blond hair was streaked with inky traces, smoke and sweat clinging to her.

  Emory’s black uniform and red sash made her want to scream. To rage and to consume. To break away. The chest plate heated, as if sensing her thoughts, and she tried to calm her pulse. She needed to put that mask on her face, to stand straight, as she tried to figure out who her allies were and who was trying to kill her.

  “Well, do come in, Princess. I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

  Emory’s lips tugged up. “Well, you did need to look at this blade of mine.”

  Lies. Every second, all of it.

  Entering, Emory unbuckled the leather straps, as she took in the forge. A huge fire crackled hungrily, and the smoke tugged up in a cyclone of air that constantly churned, the invisible suction leaving the air hot but clean. Tools hung from a belt, hammers leaned against the walls, and chisels, angle bits, and mandrels scattered the ground.

 
“So, should I tell the truth, or should you?” Riona asked it so causally as she took Anithe from Emory’s grasp.

  “Excuse me?”

  Riona smirked as she unsheathed Anithe, taking in the deep red steel. “This is one of the most unusual blades I have ever seen. Almost as unusual as a princess returning from the dead. Almost as unusual as the rumors being whispered. So, why are you here?”

  Swallowing hard, Emory didn’t waver under her pinned gaze. “Why did you bring me here when there is obviously nothing wrong? What do you want?”

  A bark of laugh echoed around her. “I don’t believe for a second that you are here for anything other than to benefit yourself. Not for a second. You were with the rebels; they trusted you, and then suddenly, you turn your back? For what? A dream of grandeur, of fine living? Of royalty?” The aggression in Riona’s voice bled out. “You had hope, right there in front of you. You turned your back. But now...”

  Riona sheathed the sword, prowling around Emory.

  “The rebels are done. I have come to serve King Adair,” Emory said.

  Tilting her head slowly, the shadows of the room deepened in Riona’s features. “Then you are deeper in your denial than I thought.”

  Her pulse jumped, racing, as ice thundered through her veins. There was no choice. No. Choice. Lips pressing into a thin line, Emory didn’t look away. One second passed and then another in uncomfortable silence.

  Sighing, Riona said, “Your sword has a hairline fracture. Bring it back tomorrow.” A dangerous invitation, but behind Riona’s flaring eyes was a kindled curiosity.

  Without saying another word, Emory turned and left, no promise of tomorrow on her lips. But Emory knew she would go. And while she didn’t look back, with each step, her frown deepened. How did Riona know? How could she know what her moment of freedom cost her?

  The door slammed behind her, and she heard the steady rhythm return. Grinding her teeth, Emory cut through the market, the bustle of the day in full swing, the clatters and cries of life around her.

  Keeping her eyes down, she walked with purpose as her mind churned. Flashes from this morning’s trial flowed nonstop, how she had ended another man’s life, and she wanted to cry, to scream, to give up.

  Picking up speed, her nails bit into her palms, and she felt the warmth trickle down her wrists. She was just one woman. A savior? A lost princess? No. Any essence of who she was had been stripped away by Memphis when he took away her memories. Any hope of who she could be had been was only now being pieced together by her instincts and actions, but all Emory could see was the mess she was in.

  Her cheeks burned thinking about Memphis as her resentment built. Foolish. Turning down the hallway, leaving the cavernous room behind, she thought, you were manipulated. Used. Her eyes welled and a tear escaped from the corner of her eye. Because of you. Of your family.

  Emory stalled, looking down the hallway, recognition slamming into her suddenly. When she and Azarius infiltrated Adair’s kingdom, this was where she forced the guard down to the dungeons to find Memphis and Nyx.

  Part of her now clung to that time when she had just been a girl blindly chasing a hope. She could have never imagined what it would mean to make Adair believe that she had truly come to join him. She wished that her sacrifice had ensured the rebels’ safety.

  Sitting down on the first step, ghosts of memories began swirling around her-her hands shaking violently in her lap. All those days with that caving helplessness inside of her. Suspended in her daydreams, filled with magic. With hope. With life. Her hope had bled away with her actions since coming to Adair’s kingdom. Now she didn’t recognize herself.

  A chilling numbness filled Emory as she sat, dread and defeat demanding her attention, and it was a void she couldn’t navigate alone. Her muscles cramped, and she stood after a group of soldiers passed her on the steps.

  Her ability was a spark, flickering, trying to push through and keep her going. To keep the girl alive that believed that this world was worth fighting for.

  ***

  “The Winter Yule is the most celebrated season in my kingdom. An exquisite night and a dinner to die for, to celebrate the change in the world around us.”

  Emory panted, sweat clinging to every ounce of her body, as she ran; her muscles quivered and burned. There was pain, but Emory noticed the hardening muscles as her body grew stronger. She had requested more sessions, and thankfully Adair had agreed.

  The sun sank lower in the sky, yet she relished being outside so she was not sitting in Adair’s kingdom, thinking about what was coming.

  Though, being with the king wasn’t much better if she was being honest. Looking at his back, his black shirt hugging his body, the muscles feathering underneath them, she saw how strong he was... She would just have to be stronger.

  Pushing harder, the forest glowed in the twilight, and those whispers again, chased her, called to her, egged her on, and challenged her. Emory tried to clear her mind, but all she could think about was what had happened that morning. The girl had been brought in, like all the rest, begging for mercy, claiming the king was a madman. Her brown eyes had flared, like molten, as Emory brought her sword down. Bringing justice for Adair’s kingdom.

  All she could see was Adair’s smirk; him looking at her like a prized trophy. And the blood.

  She cursed now between breaths. Sweat trickled down her spine, and she turned, trying to clear her mind once again. Making herself focus, so that the blood that stained her hands wasn’t for nothing. That she would make a difference. That she wasn’t a mindless killer, a monster. That all of this was for a purpose.

  Adair murmured, “You will do beautifully that night.” With a lurching heart, the world twisted. “No one will doubt your allegiance to them, to me. In one week, the world will shudder, and the rebels will be forgotten.”

  The king stopped and faced her. The blade materialized in front of him from smoke and ash, and she ducked, scrambling for Ainthe. The blade was secure in her hand as she stumbled, trying to remember the steps.

  In the dying light, she seethed, trying to get the upper hand, to be that powerful weapon that her destiny called her here for. And bathed in the last traces of light, she failed.

  And failed.

  And failed.

  ***

  Materializing in front of her room, her clothes stuck to her, bruises and dried blood covering her. Adair stepped back, and shadows were casted across his features as he looked over her, devouring every detail, and she wanted to shrink back, to disappear under his intense gaze.

  Stalling, Emory clenched her teeth, the slow panic burning through her body. It had occurred to her, when Adair was beating her into a senseless pulp, that she hadn’t worn her mother’s pendant since after the first day in this kingdom. There was a comfort knowing that she had something of her mother with her, when her world was now dictated by violence.

  Adair’s lips turned up slowly as he whispered, “Goodnight, Emory, and good work today.”

  Smiling weakly, Emory fumbled with the door handle until finally, the door shut behind her firmly. Sighing, Emory tried to forget that whisper of a smile on Adair’s face. So what if there were flickers of normalcy between them? Nothing would ever change the fact he killed her parents, nor would it change her intention of being here. Pushing down her thoughts about the Mad King, Emory set about her task.

  Drawers were thrown open: She sifted through the sea of black clothing, and a cry broke through her lips when she didn’t find it. Running to the washroom, she scoured the counter, throwing the cabinet doors open, and sitting on the clear shelf, the amethyst glinted back at her. Tears slid down her face as she shakily picked up the chain and fastened it around her neck.

  She stared at her reflection, her pale skin, her matted hair, the blood red ends. The coolness of the gem washed over her, and a tingling sensation ran down her nerve endings. Emory’s mind raced with the possibility that maybe her mother knew something she did not. Maybe there was more
to this gem...

  She could hear the traces of the Night Market flickering to life below her room and wrenching herself away from the washroom she began to pace.

  She would make Adair pay. For killing her parents, their dreams, and Kiero. She would make him bleed. Without mercy, without any more hesitation. For too long, she had pretended to be the innocent, naïve girl who was grateful to be there, to be reunited with him. All the while her ability waited in the shadows for the perfect time to sink her claws into him and destroy every dream and fantasy he had about her.

  He would regret the day he had made their world bow, shackling it in fear. Shackling her.

  Storming back into the washroom, she ripped her clothes off and climbed into the tub. The golden chest plate shimmered, having to constantly stay on her, which constricted uncomfortably in the water. It was a reminder of Adair’s power over her and her decisions. She would not kill any more innocent people. She would not. Starting the water, hot steam began to curl around her.

  Flickers of memories, of a shadow of who she used to be assaulted her, fueled by her rage, by her heartbreak. Dunking her head underneath the filling water and resurfacing, she grabbed the bar of soap off the ledge, scrubbing her skin raw as the water turned pink around her.

  Quickly she got out of the bath, wrapping the towel around her as she prowled into the bedroom. Grabbing a loose, black shirt, fitted pants, and her button-down jacket, she got dressed with a new-found purpose, strapping Ainthe across her back and securing the buckle. Tugging her boots on, she tied the laces.

  Looking around the room, she braided her hair back and took in a deep breath. Then turning, she crossed the empty space and opened the door.

  The guard raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Going somewhere, Princess?” All it took was a moment. To be brave. Or weak. To be selfless. Or fueled by greed.