Chapter 18
Gwen screamed into the field of vibrant purple flowers.
Every minute that passed, her sense of dread deepened. Sirus was in trouble, and she’d tried everything she could think. She didn’t know how to get back. She didn’t know how to get to him. She cursed Iathana for leaving her here. She cursed the field and the flowers.
Eventually, Gwen fell to her knees amongst the blooms and closed her eyes. Tears of panicked frustration ran down her cheeks. “Do something,” she snarled at herself. “You have to do something.”
Fueled by rage and worry, she hauled herself back up. If Iathana could use magick to transport wherever she pleased, Gwen knew it was possible. It could be done without stones or mirrors or some other enchanted object. She racked her brain, trying to think. She had done it once before, she reminded herself—with the mirrors. She’d even managed to slip back in time. If only she knew how in the hell she’d managed to do it.
Gwen knew no real spells. She’d only been able to do magick when she’d had to. When she was desperate. But she was desperate now. She closed her eyes. She had to get back to Volkov. Back to the forest. Back to Sirus.
She tried to focus. Levian had told her countless times that to do any great magick, mages had to first focus on the outcome, then work backward to weave spells. First Gwen thought of the castle. Then her room. The study. The forest. She tried to focus on it. Tried to will her magick to take her there.
“Please,” she begged.
As much as she tried to focus on one thing, it was the countless memories of Sirus that kept coming to her. All blurred together. Their nights together. Training. Their walks in the forest. Her heart ached.
“Take me back,” she pleaded. Her ears hummed. Gwen felt her power pulse through her body. “Take me home.”
The memory of them together in the hot spring came into vivid focus as a jolt of electricity shot through her.
It was suddenly very cold. Gwen rasped in a shallow breath as her eyes flew open and she saw the tendrils of steam rising from the hot spring in front of her, soft flurries of snow melting as they landed on its surface. The forest rustled at her arrival.
A spray of violet and a crackle of magick lit the sky above the trees, and she gasped.
She didn’t even really have time to soak in what she’d done or how. Her heart lurched into her throat, and she shot off into the forest toward the castle as fast as she could, breathlessly darting through the trees and the thick snow, her focus on only one thing.
She had to find Sirus.
Sirus spit out the foul blood of the zephyr paladin now lying lifeless at his feet. The taste was acrid against his tongue.
The attack had been swift and calculated. Nestra had ripped through the ancient warding spells that had protected Volkov forest and his clan for centuries, picking them apart one tendril at a time.
He’d told the others to flee. Gwendolyn was safe; the fight was not theirs.
In the distance, on the other side of the castle, he heard Barith’s roar of fury rip through the snowy predawn sky. Sprays of violet from Levian’s magick blurred through the clouds.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Levian had told him.
Barith had simply glowered off into the distance, his sword glowing with fire. “I could go for a bit of a tussle,” he’d growled with eagerness.
Niah had merely looked at him as if he were an idiot if he thought she would leave. The High Priestess might not have come looking for a battle, but a battle she would have.
A paladin, snarling with fury, flew at Sirus from behind with too little caution. It took only a few steps and one sword before he fell into a heap at Sirus’s feet next to his brethren.
Sirus spat again and peered across the field, over the half dozen wounded or dead acolytes he’d cut off on their western approach toward the castle. He trusted the others were proving similarly effective against the other advances. For several long seconds, he stood waiting. Trying to sense if there were more lurking in the forest. His attention shot to the edge of the small, snowy, blood-smeared clearing and locked on a pair of silvery eyes emerging from the shadows. Mirrors.
His thirst for blood renewed.
He’d half expected Nestra’s ghost to run when he took in the carnage before him. Sirus welcomed the chase. Instead, the soulless creature stepped boldly into the clearing. “You’re alive,” he growled with disbelief and disgust.
Sirus’s hunger swelled. “I am.”
“You should be dead.” He should have been. Unfortunately for the ghost, he wasn’t. The mirrors shifted over Sirus’s body, trying to comprehend. His enemy approached with caution, careful to keep a distance between them. “How?”
Sirus had thought it bold for Nestra to come here, even with her reinforcements, but he understood then why she’d felt emboldened. Her ghost had deduced who he was and had thought him dead after their battle in the mirrors. Nestra must have assumed she’d come and find Volkov mostly unprotected. Sirus spun the blade in his left hand to clear the blood of the paladin from its surface. How very wrong they’d been.
The ghost glared, awareness dawning. “You drank from her,” he guessed. “The Star.” Disgust filled those mirrored eyes.
“She will never be yours,” Sirus replied. “Just as you will never leave this place alive.”
The cockiness the ghost had displayed in the Hall of Reflections was gone, but he did not cower. A spray of magick spread over the sky. Levian and Barith were holding the line near the castle. “She will have the Star,” Aldor told Sirus, though there was an unease in the way he said it. “You cannot stop her now. Nothing can stop her.”
Nestra was near. Sirus could feel the presence of her power like he had Iathana’s. But the High Priestess’s magick was lesser than the dryad’s. And something about it was strange. Familiar, yet foul.
The ghost slowly took his blade from his scabbard. The same blade he’d held against Gwendolyn’s throat. The one she’d cut her hands open to push away. This time, Gwendolyn was not here to be his pawn. This time, Sirus would finish what he should have that night in the mirrors.
“You should’ve run,” Sirus said, then he struck.
The ghost lifted his blade to take on the blow just in time, but Sirus knew he would win before he’d even begun. Aldor was tired and sallow, while Gwendolyn’s blood pulsed through his own veins. Her power gave Sirus strength. Again he struck, and the ghost held his own. Again and again.
On the fifth strike, Sirus sensed his chance. He pushed his opponent’s sword wide, dropping one of his own, and plunged a dagger between the ghost’s ribs.
Aldor fell back, those mirrored eyes falling to the hilt of the fae blade that protruded from his chest. He rasped in pain and glared darkly back at Sirus. “I could say—the same—to you,” he replied through strained breaths. He tore the blade out with a groan. “You should’ve left her in the mirror, vampire.”
Sirus lingered like a cat with a fat mouse. “I should’ve torn your head from your shoulders.”
The ghost braced himself, preparing for the next onslaught. “I should’ve dug that dagger into your fucking heart,” he snarled, throwing the one in his hand at Sirus with skill.
Sirus struck the dagger away with his sword, sending it hurtling into the snow some distance away. It was time to finish this. Once and for all. He lunged forward, and as he did a ripple of cold flared up his spine. Their blades met as his marks of protection surged. Then there was nothing but pain. His vision blurred as fire spread through his body. He managed to disengage and retreat, stumbling uncharacteristically as he went.
As suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone. His vision cleared, and Sirus found himself still standing, but only barely. He knew it had been magick, but he should have been protected against such attacks.
Aldor stood before him, his weapon lowered. He hadn’t even tried to attack Sirus while he’d been at a disadvantage. Those mirrored eyes merely glared at him with something that seemed almost like pity. “I warned you, vampire,” he muttered. “Nothing will stop her. Not even you.”
A ripple of ice spread through Sirus once more, but he recognized the magick for what it was now. He felt Nestra’s power sliding through him like a parasite. It was sickening.
The ghost took a step back, as if he were afraid he would catch it too. “It’s your turn to pray,” he told Sirus, pulling further away.
The High Priestess appeared at the edge of the clearing, just beyond her lapdog’s shoulder. She looked zephyr through and through. Her long, straight blonde hair cascaded over her white cloak trimmed in rabbit fur. Her silver diadem encrusted with blue gems glimmered against her pale forehead in the dim light of the moon. Sirus knew Nestra was hundreds of years old, but she looked even younger than Gwendolyn. Her skin was alabaster and smooth. Nothing about her looked villainous. She was radiant. Tall and lithe, with soft blue eyes that matched the gems she wore.
It was unnerving, even for Sirus. She appeared so innocent and youthful, but he could feel the darkness that engulfed her. Could sense the rot that had taken hold inside her.
Nestra’s blue eyes locked onto his as she casually made her way through the snow toward him. She appraised him, and he shivered. Her power was corrupt, but there was something strangely familiar about it.
“You’re more handsome than I thought you’d be,” she confessed in a delicate voice like spun sugar. His back stiffened. She meandered over to the paladins he’d slain, her boots crunching in the blood-soaked snow. “And it appears your skills as a fighter were not exaggerated.”
Unlike most Folk, Nestra didn’t seem at all uneasy being near a vampire. In fact, she seemed comfortable, as if she were merely out on an evening stroll.
Sirus replied with a glare. Nestra was a sharp creature, and powerful. It was pointless to make a move on her without a clear opening, especially if she could bring him to his knees with her magick. Sirus had to be patient. Ready.
Barith roared in the distance, casually drawing her attention. “I’d hoped for this to be a simple task,” she confessed, all easiness. “Aldor.”
The ghost stepped forward. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Go. Find it. Bring it to me,” she ordered. Sirus raged internally but kept his demeanor calm and schooled. She was sending Aldor to fetch Gwendolyn.
“Yes, Mistress,” Aldor replied dutifully. He displayed no hint of excitement at capturing Gwendolyn, as he had in the Hall of Reflections. The ghost hurried away in the direction of the castle, and Sirus at least got some satisfaction knowing what awaited him there. He would not find Gwendolyn in Volkov, but he would find a very irritated Rath.
Nestra circled Sirus slowly, without any hint of trepidation. She was quiet for a long while, appraising him. He waited. “You know, you and I are not so dissimilar, vampire,” she mused eventually.
He said nothing. She was not the first enemy he’d ever faced who’d underestimated him.
She gave a small, amused laugh when he did not reply. “I give you a great compliment, comparing us,” she pointed out. She spoke as if they were old friends. “Tell me,” she added. “Who hired you to steal the Star?”
He kept silent.
She stopped to stand before him and smirked sweetly. It made his skin crawl. “Was it worth the coin, at least?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. Gwendolyn was worth far more than mere coin.
The High Priestess chuckled, the sound like honey. “You’re honest too,” she said, her eyes raking over him once more. “I applaud your loyalty. Though it won’t serve you now,” she told him. “King Thurin is gone, and those who remain in the Zephyr Court have pledged their allegiance to me. Protecting your benefactor will only hinder your chances of surviving this day. And I would think you above dying for something as base as pride.”
Sirus was not sure if what she spoke was truth, but if Thurin was dead, it meant Marcus was likely dead as well.
Her focus drifted back to the motionless paladins spattered over the clearing. “My devout are not without use, but they prove lacking in the skills in which you and your kind excel.” Nestra looked upon his swords, and then him. “The Island of Strye will rise anew under my reign. Zephyrs will once again claim the respect they deserve amongst the Folk. I will require loyal fighters in this new era. A new guard.”
“I will not serve you,” Sirus declared.
She tutted her displeasure but did not seem surprised. “So quick to seal your fate?”
He’d rather die a thousand deaths than serve her.
Her sweet smile darkened, the edges of her eyes filling with tendrils of shadow to match the black he knew she could see in his own. She held up her hand, and a dark flame fell over it. It was stark against the white of her cloak and her skin. Something deep within Sirus’s bones responded to that power, knew it. It was the same power that lurked within himself.
“I never understood the use in fearing the D?kk,” the High Priestess told him. “It always seemed such a waste to let all they’d learned be forgotten.” The flames licked over her fingers and formed into a ball in the center of her pale palm. “The Shadows are just a natural reaction to the Light, after all. Though I suppose not all creatures are strong enough to wield such power without letting it consume them.”
Sirus felt disgusted as he watched Nestra fawn over herself and her brilliance. Rath had been right—the darkness was a gift to those who learned to master it. Sirus looked into her face. Nestra had deluded herself into thinking she could control the powers of the D?kk, but he had seen what became of others who had been just as arrogant. It never ended well.
She stepped closer. “Your makers were weak, but you needn’t follow them to the grave. The fate of your kind can be rewritten. I can rewrite it. Join me, and together we can create a new age of vampires as well. A new era of Light and Shadow. You could lead a clan of hundreds.”
Sirus gripped his swords tighter. He knew his odds were low. At most, he would get one chance. If he were to defeat her, he would have to be sharp. “You think you can tame a Star?” he questioned her. It was one thing to think she could wield the ancient magicks of the dark fae, but it was an entirely transcendent level of hubris to think she could also hold the power of a Celestial Star.
Darkness shifted over Nestra’s skin, exposing the cracks in her hold. The decay that lurked beneath. Then it all fell away, and she appeared as soft and porcelain as before. “It is my destiny,” she told him with conviction. “The Fates have foreseen it.”
Similar words had spilled from Merlin’s own lips before he’d found himself eternally imprisoned. Sirus had known then what he knew now as he looked upon Nestra. Fate and destiny had nothing to do with it. The High Priestess simply craved power, and she veiled her aspirations with the lie of prophecy.
He kept silent, and after a moment Nestra narrowed her eyes on him. Her dark powers clawed at his tattoos once more. His body tensed under the pressure as her magicks squeezed around him like a snake.
“You’ve tasted her, haven’t you?” she guessed with a tinge of raw jealousy. She stepped closer. Her eyes flared with darkness once more, and his skin prickled with pain. “Is that why you protect her still? Because you’ve tasted the Star’s power?” Nestra’s anger evaporated, and she smirked knowingly, edging nearer. She reached her hand out to stroke his face. “I can give you more than a mere taste, vampire.”
He saw his opportunity as she came closer. Sirus snatched his last dagger and plunged it into her heart. But the blade did not strike flesh, only shadow and air as Nestra fell away to nothing.
“The Hound of Hell,” she laughed coldly, reappearing several yards away. “The great leader of Wolves. You’re no more than a dog.”
Sirus’s body seared with crippling pain. “You will never have her,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
Nestra’s eyes turned solid black as the dark magick crept through her veins and along her pale skin. “A shame,” she lamented with sweet venom. “I do hope the Master of Serpents is wiser than that of Wolves.” She threw a ball of dark fire in his direction.
Pushing away the pain, Sirus managed to launch himself toward her, hoping, praying it would finish this. He dodged the fire only to slam into a magical barrier she threw up at the last moment. He struck it with force, bouncing off, but Sirus managed to stay on his feet, sliding backward through the snow.
Nestra hissed in fury as she looked down at her arm. Dark blood seeped over the slit in her perfectly white cloak where his blade had struck. Her black eyes snapped to him. “You are fast, vampire,” she conceded. “But I wield the magick of your makers now. You know you cannot win.” She began to mutter a foul spell that made Sirus’s skin prickle. Dark flames consumed her as she conjured the twisted magick, engulfing her white cloak until it burned and fell away. A slinky dress of shadow and flame replaced it to cover her naked flesh. She moved her fingers over the wound at her arm, healing it with magick.
The D?kk had been destroyed because they’d thought themselves capable of harnessing unknown forces beyond this world. Because they’d craved power and dominance above all else. Sirus had been reborn long after the D?kk had fallen, but as he looked upon Nestra, he felt as though he were gazing upon a specter of one of his shadow fae makers.
He knew in his bones that she held power over him. That what she said was true. He would not win. But still he held his swords at the ready. If he was to die, he would do it with honor, defending his home. His clan. Gwendolyn.
His heart pricked with regret knowing he would never see her again. Never touch her soft skin or hear her laugh. Sirus knew he’d been a fool and the others had been right. He’d loved Gwendolyn for some time, and he would until the end. He was not sorry she was far away from here and safe, but he was sorry he would never get the chance to tell her.
“You have already lost,” he told Nestra. “The Star is gone. You will never have her.”
Nestra’s black eyes narrowed. She held out a hand, dark fire forming around it. His blood burned within his body; the pain was beyond anything he’d known since his rebirth. Sirus fought against it. Nestra only pushed harder. His vision blurred, and he fell to one knee, digging a sword into the ground to keep himself upright.
The High Priestess slid closer. “The Star will be mine,” she declared. “And you will die, dog.”
Beyond the grip of agonizing pain, he grew numb and detached. He thought of Gwendolyn. A vision of her in the forest, smiling back at him, her soft scent of lilies mixed with the forest and the home that he loved.
The pain ceased all at once. His vision cleared again, and Sirus found himself kneeling, swords still in hand. His breaths were shallow, his body coated in sweat. Waves of shock flooded his nervous system in the afterglow of the pain.
Nestra stood before him, her head turned to the east, her attention drawn as if she sensed something.
A spray of Levian’s magick sent violet light cascading over the sky. Sirus gripped his swords, ready to strike. Not caring what had caused Nestra to drop her attack. The moment he felt his limbs return to his control, he struck. Sirus lunged forward with two precise swings. A wall of shadow engulfed Nestra, blocking him. A ball of black flame shot out, hitting him square in the chest. Sirus flew back, landing hard on the ground.
Every bone and muscle in his body pulsed with pain, and he struggled to compose himself. He knew he was bleeding, and that several of his ribs were broken. His bleary gaze found Nestra as he tried to stand again.
The shadow she’d summoned to protect her spread to form black wings at her back. She no longer looked like the innocent who had stepped into the clearing moments before, but like a black angel of death. She was smiling at him, soft and wicked. “The Star was always meant to be mine,” she declared. “Destiny is never thwarted, vampire.”
Sirus managed to stand. The moment he did, dread pooled deep inside him. His senses had been overcome with pain, but he felt something else, only faintly. The presence of color through the gray.
No. It couldn’t be. Gwendolyn was far from here. In the Veil.
The High Priestess’s smile widened. “I thought to kill you quickly,” she went on. “But now I think I will make you bear witness to my ascension.”
Adrenaline and fear flooded him. He didn’t understand why Gwendolyn had returned, but he would keep Nestra distracted for as long as possible. Desperate, he prayed. To the gods. To anyone who might be able to hear his thoughts. To Rath and the others.
Protect her.