3. Chapter Two
3
Nicholas
P ower surged within Nicholas, a potent chaos forever his promising mayhem, threatening an infinite destruction. He desired to give in, to give Power everything she wanted. Shatter bones. Burn forests. Dry the oceans. Hide the sun. Break the world. Make every beating heart beg him not to take tomorrow and all the days after. This energy, this need, could not be holed up forever, but he was taught to temper the beast. Let her out when necessary, then tighten the noose and don’t let go or she’d take him, too.
The Dread Peaks sat before him, overrun by beasts of another plane. An unholy plane, the humans called it. He did not believe in the folly of humans, their foolish morals, and wrathful religions. However, he believed in repaying debts. Calix Fearworn declared war against Faerie years ago and Nicholas would eagerly engage.
Lockehold, the shadowed disciples’ citadel of horror, held more than the path forward. Tonight, he had a job to do and he couldn’t wait to let go. The fae and mortal armies stood at his back. They shared a breath when he held out his hand. The eternal flame burning upon his center spread from his fingertips. Mortals called magic the Sight, something gifted from their mundane gods. Nicholas saw it as nature, as natural as rivers and mountains and the beating heart within his chest.
Fuchsia flames lurched from his hand through the sea of monsters and the battle for Lockehold began. The siege lasted hours. He long lost track of the bugs he crushed. Prey wailed. Bodies dropped. Limbs shattered. Gore and death always followed power and he couldn’t get enough. Those were the hardest times to strangle the destructive need for all he wanted was to unleash.
But as he gazed upon the remnants of his mission, a shadowed disciple now barely more than blood and ash at his feet, his power diminished, ceasing the turbulent air and rampant flames that charred the ruined room. The air sparked with life, flames flickered in and out of existence. They settled atop his skin, then withered into lines of smoke. His eyes opened, the fierce hue of pink dimmed.
Around him, his kin watched. They clutched daggers and swords, tips pointed at him, for none knew when one like him—a shade—would lose themselves entirely. When Power took hold and wouldn’t let go, they had to be ready to strike that down, if they could.
“The generals will be pleased,” Nicholas said while digging through the remnants of the shadowed disciples’ robes. He tracked the bastard for nearly two months. His mission was about what the disciple carried, a book of weathered pages stitched together by glistening spion silk.
The half dozen fae around him eased the hands from their weapons, now aware that Nicholas was himself. Snow filtered in through the collapsed ceiling at the edge of the room. Corpses lay strewn about, crushed by debris or splattered against walls. Their stench carried over the heavy musk of the citadel. Nicholas loved the scent of a good slaughtering and the taste of copper on his tongue. He knew little more than that over the last decade, always yearning for a fight, for fun and games, anything to ease the pressure of energy gnawing at his core. Anything to prevent a change that all said was inevitable.
“Our sources were correct. A general of Fearworn’s shadowed disciples carrying a book of monsters,” Duke said. The mortal mentor, forced on him by his father’s orders, surged forward.
“May I, sir?” Duke asked. Nicholas dropped the book into his grasp, smirking when the mentor flipped through the pages and his expression sank. “What language is this?”
“Not one a dense mortal would know.” He snatched the book. “This is the ancient tongue of High Fae.”
Which Fearworn knew, as a High Fae himself… and a shade, same as Nicholas.
The greedy gazes Nicholas received during childhood changed when Calix Fearworn fell to the storm within him. When he threatened to recreate the Collision that opened gateways between the realms of Faerie and Terra. Fearworn yearned for a sinister power, to unleash monsters from another world and seek all realms that may be after, even if that meant destroying their realms in the process.
Though others wanted the power Nicholas had, they also came to fear it, to expect him to fall to Fearworn’s corruption as shades were cursed to self-destruct, one way or the other. Truthfully, he considered following Fearworn’s path more times than he could count.
Fearworn sought knowledge and power. This book proved that. One flip through the pages and he glimpsed decades of Fearworn’s curiosities for the unknown. Among Fearworn’s ranks, he would be encouraged to lean into the worst monster that lived within. However, even his desperation for a good time knew better than to risk throwing himself to madness. He would not be himself afterward, and he quite liked himself.
“I was taught this language before any other. It is a complicated tongue. Translating will take time, however, I am eager to determine how fucked Fearworn is now,” Nicholas added with a chuckle.
“The generals appreciate all the work you’ve put in, Lord Darkmoon,” Duke said. “We would not have won this battle without you.”
“Lord Darkmoon is my father, and save your piss poor pleasantries for one who cares.”
Duke bowed in the typical obedient manner.
Nicholas’ father, Lord Laurent Darkmoon, sought to maintain a relatively civil connection with humans for the time being. Nicholas wasn’t known for civility, so a mortal mentor followed to ensure he didn’t cause too much trouble by teaching him mortal ways.
Duke had been a constant annoyance. Laurent could have at least hired a fuckable annoyance. But Duke had the curse of all humans; age. Wrinkled skin and thin, graying hair that sprouted out of his ears, too. He always thought about tying the man down and ripping out all that affronted him, although there wouldn’t be much left of Duke afterward.
“We should hurry back to the generals,” Duke said. “They have likely sent scouts into the Deadlands by now. The generals will want to move, too, now that Lockehold has been taken. This book is no doubt going to be of great value to us. This war may be coming to an end at last.”
Nicholas couldn’t say he shared Duke’s excitement. If there was one mortal creation he found marvelous, it was war, and mortals were exceptionally prolific at it.
“Look at this,” Blair called.
Nicholas’ sister stepped into the light from a shadowed hallway. Her teeth, jagged as a predator, unsettled any unfortunate enough to gaze upon her. With limbs long as a willow branch, ocean eyes narrowed and cold, skin a pale blue, and hair black as midnight, she was vicious in both words and appearance.
She closed the distance between them in a couple of steps. Her blood-stained fingers snatched the book out of his grasp. “Well, well, won’t Father be pleased about his little pup performing so excellently at playing fetch?”
“Do not act as if you wouldn’t be swift to obey had he not given you the same orders,” he countered.
“Then aren’t I lucky to know he would never give me such orders. You’re his favorite leashed dog, after all.”
He hated that she wasn’t wrong. Blair came for war first, zealous for the slaughter, and of her own volition. He would have joined, but Laurent had plans. He did not have the same freedoms as she. He was more of a delegate than a warrior, meant to monitor and ensure Fearworn fell to the hands of a fae. Laurent wanted the mortals to be grateful. To show the capabilities of his lineage, but Nicholas couldn’t stop himself from running into the fray on the occasions when he thought he could get away with being disobedient.
Duke cleared his throat. “Shall we return, sir?”
“Oh, this one’s still here.” Blair clicked her tongue as if Duke’s presence offended her. It probably did. She said she preferred her men to be pretty and pathetic. Duke only fit one part of that criteria.
Ignoring her, Nicholas set off. His kin traversed the citadel at his back, searching for any potential survivors. The fae lunged at any sound. There was no life left in Lockehold. Even the structure withered, burnt, and broken. The mortal generals would be displeased. They had mentioned wanting to use the stronghold against Fearworn, but Nicholas wanted to unleash, needed to, really. He thought little of the consequences. Besides, he gained the book, and that would satiate any potential anger.
Approaching the military encampment, he cast the world in a blaze of pink light and announced, “Let us celebrate this victory till morning!”
The fae crowded around a supply cart, clutching the neck of liquor bottles. Blair skipped ahead to join them, linking arms with another woman. The group cheered and raised those bottles high. Arden stood with them, eyes more brilliant than polished rubies. The fair color of his skin made snow appear gray, and the white of his hair drifted over his shoulders as if a constant wind followed. After a long day of bloodshed, the white shade took on a soft red tone.
“Congratulations, Nicholas. You fought well today, as always,” Arden said.
Nicholas captured his waist in a lewd gesture and relished in the hungry kiss he received.
“Lord Nicholas.” Duke cleared his throat, souring his mood in a single sound.
“What now?” Nicholas barked.
“After such a trying battle, is it not prudent to speak with the soldiers?” Duke nodded at the med bay adjacent to them. “You are a delegate of Faerie, sent by Lord Darkmoon himself. The generals, and kings, would appreciate your attention toward the wounded, especially now when we are getting so close to the end. It may set the mortal soldiers at ease, seeing you so clearly on their side.”
“Send Blair for such trivial matters. She loves toying with mortals.”
Blair laughed. “I don’t think so. This is your duty as the oh-so-special delegate of the Darkmoon family.” Caught between two of their kin, she wiggled her fingers dismissively. “Have fun.”
The three scurried off with booze in hand, leaving him with Duke’s expecting attention. He snarled. “What attention would I give those ailing bastards struggling against the inevitable?”
Arden placed a hand against Nicholas’ chest, fingers toiling with the buttons of his blouse. “Nicholas has done more than enough. We have earned an evening of celebration.”
“I do not disagree,” Duke said. “But this will only take a moment. Speak to the soldiers, let them know how grand this victory is, that you slayed a shadowed disciple considered of great importance and we’re far closer to catching Fearworn than ever.”
“Mortals and their cares will always elude me.” Nicholas pressed a kiss to the base of Arden’s neck, whispering against the shivering skin to wait for him. Arden slipped away, and he waved a dismissive hand. “So be it. I’ll speak to the wounded, then you will leave me. If I see your vile mug before dawn, there will be severe consequences.”
Duke bowed and Nicholas stormed toward the tent reeking of human filth. They had an uncanny ability to carry the aroma of a sewer wherever they went. Their weak bodies lay out on cots, broken, bloodied, and bandaged. The medics and nurses toiled over them. A useless endeavor, he always thought. Mortals passed with such ease.
“Mortal filth!” Nicholas twirled his hands dramatically.
Duke pursed his lips in disapproval.
He meandered by the cots, speaking in a high tilted voice like a parent coddling their children. “If you are somehow unaware, I am Nicholas Darkmoon, a delegate of Faerie and your soon-to-be savior. I’ve come with great tidings. As you may have known, Lockehold was of great importance. Some gave their pathetic, insignificant lives to the cause. I’ve been informed that it is a tremendous honor. Though nothing compared to my achievements. I burned one of Fearworn’s shadowed disciples to a crisp, someone high ranking among his wretches. Thanks to that, we’re one step closer to defeating the bastard. Although I doubt most of you will survive to see it, this remains a blessed day.” He cast his gaze from one silent cot to the other, then added, “This is when you applaud.”
No one did, though a disgusting bastard made the mistake of clutching his wrist. Blood slipped over his skin. A frail voice sputtered from a man with blood-stained bandages over what little remained of his melted face. “Please, sir, water,” the mortal croaked.
Nicholas felt life slipping away, the mortal’s energy fading like a forgotten fire. Nothing the medics tried would prevent this soldier’s demise.
The Collision Treaty stopped fae from taking the lives of mortals and making deals with them during war times, but there had always been loopholes. Mortals could offer to make a deal first. Fae could kill mortals already bound to death since their religions found it merciful to end suffering. Most mortals didn’t believe souls left this world forever. Eventually, they returned, so their medics were ordered to ease the passing of those incapable of being saved. To fae, that meant a little torment could happen prior to a final breath.
“I will give you something, but it won’t be water,” he chuckled and reared his arm back. Power twisted around his hand, forming a sharp saber intent on relieving the dreg of a limb.
A gun fired. The iron bullet pierced his shoulder. He cursed. The skin sizzled and burned. Coral mist seeped from the wound, accompanied by bubbling blood, then the bullet slipped out to clatter on the ground. His guttural growl grew when gazing upon the smoking revolver held by a soon to be dead dunce.
“Get out of our tent,” the medic spoke, based on the crimson stained shirt clinging to his muscular form. Sweat clung to the short ends of his blonde hair, carrying the sun’s first rays of dawn. Those jade eyes did not share the same fervor, as wild and feral as a starving beast. He stepped out from behind a cot to stand at the center of the tent, gun raised.
Nicholas hated how he admired the man’s tone figure, long legs and cool white skin glistening beneath the translucent fabric over his broad chest. What a waste of looks on a mortal who would be eaten away by time and death.
“You shot me,” Nicholas hissed.
“You were about to dismember one of my patients. If you try to do so again, I will aim for the head.” The gun clicked in warning.
A nurse gasped and knelt by the cot of her patient.
Duke stepped forward. “Let us all calm down. This is unnecessary and the Collision Treaty—”
“Is a load of bullshit,” the medic interrupted. “Written by halfhearted kings and lords with no care or mind for what happens here. Now, get out. We have enough work on our hands. We needn’t care for an arrogant child, too.”
“An arrogant child. You better tell me I heard wrong.” Nicholas rolled his shoulder.
Nurses and patients gasped, shocked to witness the bullet wound closing. Nothing remained but a dull throb.
“Let me correct myself then, an arrogant and hard-of-hearing child utterly incapable of thinking of anyone other than himself. He comes raging into camp without thinking of the consequences of his fire.” The medic nodded toward the muddy ground. “The snow was cold, but at least it was sturdy. Our medics shouldn’t have to worry about twisting their ankles while attending to the wounded. Then you come in here spouting bullshit and daring to put your hands on anyone. I don’t believe I’ve ever met one as dull as you.”
Nicholas clutched the throat of the disobedient bastard. His claws pierced skin. The medic kept his haughty chin high. Blood followed the slender curves of his neck, painting the skin a lush red.
“You have quite the tongue on you. I would love to rip it out,” he snarled and squeezed harder.
“Go on.” The medic smirked when Nicholas grunted from the head of the gun digging into his crotch. “Let us determine who is quicker.”
“That is a game you don’t wish to play, mortal scum.”
“I’ll decide what games to play myself, arrogant jackass.”
“My Lord.” Duke shot an arm between them, attempting to separate the two. “This is uncalled for. You are on the verge of going against the Collision Treaty. No king, and especially not Lord Darkmoon, will tolerate this.”
But he couldn’t tolerate smug mortals and this blonde dolt made him want to snap necks.
Though, truth be told, the combat medic was not worth the torture his father would set upon him for causing trouble. The one fae he listened to, in a sense, and for good reason. Laurent knew pain and dealt it like no other. He didn’t take disobedience well. Even with all of Nicholas’ strength, he never won against his father, because Laurent always knew what made him tick. What made him cower. What to use and how to use it. Laurent’s long years of life made him seem invincible.
Nicholas reluctantly released the medic. The stranger fell to his heels and retreated, gun pointed between Nicholas’ legs.
“You should learn to hold your tongue before you lose it,” he warned.
“I don’t take the advice of fools,” the medic replied.
He wanted nothing more than to burn the medic and listen to his shrill screams through the night. But a glimpse of Duke reminded him of what would happen if he dared, so he stormed out of the tent, leaving a trail of flames in his wake. He overheard Duke apologizing for the disturbance, then the mentor approached him outside.
“Who was that?” he growled, catching sight of the medic through the slaps of the tent.
“Nothing more than a combat medic,” Duke replied nervously. “Forgive him. He didn’t know to whom he spoke. Tonight is a victorious one. Please, enjoy your evening with your kin.”
Nicholas was sure to do so, drinking the night away and spending an evening in bed with Arden, all the while dreaming of gouging out a pair of smug green eyes.