5. Chapter Four
5
Nicholas
H overing spheres of fuchsia illuminated the tent. Nicholas brooded at a desk constructed of contorted tree roots, smoothed by his command. Papers lay scattered, notes he had taken, instructions from the mortal generals, and letters from his father lecturing him on taking drastic measures they never agreed upon. Nicholas’ purpose was not to wade into the war zone but to give the generals dainty smiles and advice until the right moment. Laurent saw no reason to waste fae lives. Let the mortals wage war and the fae play their games, then end it all in one fell swoop.
Though Laurent never admitted this, Nicholas suspected he aspired for his family to end the war because that would look good on him, on all of Darkmoon. Laurent may have made bets with other fae, who would then owe him a terrible favor. Laurent loved nothing more than to be owed. Then there were the mortals who would view the Darkmoon family as saviors, perhaps even trustworthy enough to make deals with. They would be fools to think so, but mortals are damned by their foolishness.
It never mattered what Nicholas did though, his father always had complaints, so he never strived to listen. He tiptoed the line of a good beating. That was the only way he had ownership of himself. Besides, those letters couldn’t hold his attention when battling against Fearworn’s book of monsters. He began the translations the previous morning and barely made it thirty pages in. The language of High Fae was ancient, a tongue spoken by the first fae. A rare few remained, such as Laurent and Fearworn. Laurent taught his offspring to speak the ancient tongue, if only to remind them of influence.
Fearworn’s notes were indecipherable ramblings at first, but his focus returned when he opened a new Scar within the Deadlands, though they weren’t called that at the time. Nicholas couldn’t recall the previous names, nor did he care. He sought how Fearworn fed life into his creations.
Arden entered the tent, a stack of papers clipped between his clawed fingers. “I have them.”
Nicholas snatched them. “Did Blair catch wind of our snooping?”
“I do not believe so. I haven’t seen her.”
“Not seeing her doesn’t mean she isn’t watching.”
“Do you want me to hold on to the papers until later, then?” Arden asked.
Nicholas pursed his lips. “No.”
Smiling, Arden explained, “William Augustus Vandervult is the youngest son of Lord Robert and Lady Matilda Vandervult. He has three older brothers and was recruited at sixteen, thus serving in the war for five years. He was born and raised in Alogan, the capital of the Heign Kingdom, attending military training at their recruitment camp for a year where Marsha Montgomery, the current Head Medical Officer of the second battalion, surmised he had the Sight, specifically for medical purposes.”
Arden chuckled at the terminology. Mortals had strange beliefs that he enjoyed berating. They believed magic to be so simple, gifted by mystical beings in their made up afterlife and ever so limited. To fae, magic simply was, no different than mountains, trees, and rivers. Magic is not a gift, it’s a part of nature, and the limit was one's imagination and determination.
Nicholas sat the pages on his desk to flip through them. “How useful that power must have been for him. He was in the infirmary more often than not. A sick and weak child needed to heal himself lest he fall in the war to a mere infection.”
“I believe there is more to it than that. I conversed with a few who served alongside him. William is known for standing up for himself and others, sometimes in what others described as violent manners. He has been reprimanded occasionally.”
“He started fights?”
“I believe his past, combined with his lack of hesitation in shooting you, speaks volumes.”
Nicholas’ nail dug into William’s portrait, scratching out the eyes, then tearing off the picture entirely. “Let us test how brilliant or violent of a mage he supposedly is.”
Typically, Arden was always in for good fun. They met years ago at a revel that lasted a full thirty days and nights, hardly exchanging names before taking each other to bed. However, at this suggestion, Arden hesitated. Nicholas wasn’t a fool to imagine why.
Laurent and Arden never mentioned a deal, but Arden greeted Nicholas first upon his arrival in Terra. Arden has shadowed him ever since. Many owed Laurent and he always waited until the opportune moment to be repaid, so Nicholas suspected Arden’s true concerns lied elsewhere. Even in another realm, his father tightened the noose around his neck, reminding him who had control and who would snap if they stepped out of line.
“What of the Collision Treaty?” Arden asked. “The consequences of breaking it are severe.”
“We won’t push too far. I merely wish to play a game.”
“This game must be played with the utmost care.”
Lest Laurent bring down his wrath on both of them. Nicholas considered his father’s punishment if anything was taken too far. He thought of a cold, dank cell crushing him, walls too close, and little air to breathe. The sensation of being crushed, consumed by the earth itself, broken down into nothing and forgotten in the damp soil, little more than food for the worms. No one would mourn his loss. They would forget him easily enough, even his resting place, and he’d be lost to more than life, but also memory itself.
Nicholas choked back his thoughts. “Neither of us will cause any true trouble. Do not worry. I want my father’s attention as little as you do. So, why don’t you find us something fun to play with?”
Arden’s concern shifted into intrigue. “I will be sure to impress.”
Nicholas fell back in his chair of thorns, picking the spikes off one by one to pinch between his fingers. The blades drew blood that he wiped away with a flick of his finger. The dull prick of pain kept him occupied, otherwise he may break that cursed treaty.
After decades of Fearworn and his shadowed disciples not being taken seriously, they attacked Nicholas’ home of Darkmoon and one of the mortal’s capitals. All learned these were points where the distance between realms was thin. Fearworn sought to tear through them, to open pathways to a new realm, one potentially far worse than a plane of monsters. The shadowed disciples, followers of Fearworn as both mortal and fae-alike, dealt a devastating blow. Countless lives were lost on either side, but Fearworn didn’t succeed in opening a portal that could condemn them all. That was the moment fae lords and mortal kings met and agreed to fight together. They devised the Collision Treaty between fae and mortals, ensuring one race did not kill the other. Though mortals have always been dimwitted, there were dozens of loopholes in the treaty.
So when Arden returned a day later to confess that soldiers were given a pint of wine as part of their daily rations, Nicholas knew he could cause a little trouble. The soldiers guarding the stash wouldn’t deny him. They stepped aside when he approached the rations. He grabbed a random bottle and slipped two crushed amaryllis plants within. A poisonous flower that caused vomiting, diarrhea, and tremors, unpleasant but not fatal.
“Do you know of the medic William Vandervult?” Nicholas asked the guards.
One nodded and took the pint, aware of what had to be done unless he risked a fae’s wrath. Some believed fae would snatch their firstborn, which could happen, but Nicholas wasn’t all that interested after meeting a couple with three dozen babies that wouldn’t stop crying and spitting up on the carpets. He never led any of the mortals to believe otherwise though since the possibility made them so compliant and he wasn’t the type to forgo a good laugh.
Nicholas returned to his translations. He progressed slowly from the complicated text, accompanied by the excitement of what was to come. When Arden retrieved him later that day, he slid the book of monsters beneath his waistcoat and leapt. Together, they traversed the campsite toward the medical bay.
Through the windows of the old hut, William toiled between the soldiers with aching limbs or running fevers. Blood and dirt stained his uniform making the once dark green nearly brown in color. His pint of wine sat on a crate used as a makeshift table. Nicholas and Arden shielded themselves behind crates and an old fence across the pathway.
William sauntered over to his pint, but didn’t drink. The medic set both hands on the mug, observant in his reticence, then stalked outside. Nicholas didn’t bother hiding. His plan had gone amiss, so he stood and let William approach. The bastard’s fingers twitched, then he downed the drink in front of Nicholas’ vexed face.
Smacking his lips, William said, “Amaryllis. You’ll have to do better than that.”
He stifled the urge to grind his teeth. “I wanted to determine what you were capable of. I ensured you wouldn’t taste or smell anything peculiar, so you’re quite young to be such an adept healer.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“Cocky, too.”
“Says the little fae lord, playing games rather than working. Didn’t you get your grubby hands on some important tome? That should have far more of your attention than a mere combat medic who spoke truthfully to you, probably for the first time in your life. Must be why you’re so sensitive about it.”
William grunted when Nicholas’ nails formed a sharp blade to press against his neck. Arden barked a reminder of the treaty that Nicholas craved to burn, if it meant he could carve the skin from William’s bones.
“You continue to bare your teeth at me. One day, I shall pluck them from your mouth one by one,” he warned.
“One day? Why not cut my neck here? You so clearly want to,” William goaded.
“Stop testing me. You don’t have a gun this time.”
“Don’t I?” William grinned defiantly. He was an annoying beauty, like an ugly portrait one couldn’t cease admiring for the longer they look, the more intrigued they became. Bewitched, even. Nicholas had the abrupt urge to grasp his neck and bite those treacherous lips. It was a strange thought, delirious even.
“You have your oaths,” William continued as Nicholas’ eyes swept over him in search of a weapon. The only visible tool was a knife all military personnel wore. “As imprudent as the fae are, the one thing they will not break is an oath, especially a magical one. I hear the results are unpleasant.”
To say the least. The Collision Treaty marked fae for death if they slaughtered mortals, so William was not wrong. Fae made their deals and stuck to them. They simply found ways around their rules and Nicholas was already compiling a list of torments for William.
In Faerie, one did not speak ill of another without the thrill of knowing they may retaliate in a far more violent manner. It was part of the game they all played, waiting for a moment to strike, to rip and tear and break.
“This has gone too far,” someone said, a face that had Nicholas squinting. Right, the one who interrupted them the other day.
The stranger settled between them, forcing him to release William. She stood taller than all of them, glaring down at Nicholas with her lips set into a grim line.
“Continue this and I will inform the generals. We are allies in this war. Start acting like it,” she demanded.
“Lord Darkmoon would not be pleased to hear of any trouble,” Arden whispered, even if his fingers twitched from the same chaotic yearning coursing through Nicholas.
William stood defiantly beneath his glower. A defiance others rarely showed. When they did, Nicholas’ wrath followed them, swift and agonizing, neither of which he could do here. The challenge enthralled him and brought about a vicious wanting. William had this energy, a sensation he couldn’t put his finger on, a magnetic pull now taut between them. He wanted to break it. He might have tried if a howling gale hadn’t swept over the encampment.
Nicholas smelled the creatures first, a stench of sulfur, then two massive beasts, gray skinned and yellow-eyed with leathered wings, plummeted toward them. Their curved talons swooped in and smashed nearby tents.
William cursed when two nails caught his left shoulder. Nicholas would relish in the sound if his torso hadn’t been grabbed by the beast, too. Through the chaos, the second creature wreaked havoc. From above, Nicholas witnessed a leather hide swatting at soldiers becoming ant-sized in his vision. Two shadows battled the monsters that grabbed them, too, then lurched skyward to follow.
Wind hissed in Nicholas’ ears. Drums rang. The world shrank. The camp disappeared, replaced by endless evergreens, then overcome by ashy clouds. Power surged within him, blinding and white hot, screeching like a dying animal. His elongated nails, harsh as steel blades, sliced the beast’s front leg clean off. The beast yowled. Nicholas fell. The beast surged forward to catch him in its jaws. The serrated teeth crunched through his abdomen. Blood gushed. Bones cracked. The edge of his eyes watered. Each nerve sang in agony.
He would heal but panic always set in. Pain made one loopy, made them desperate.
He jabbed the blade through the bastard’s eye. The beast thrashed about, throwing Nicholas from side to side. The teeth tore further through his flesh. Skin hung from his bones in thin threads. He pressed both hands to the monster’s cold muzzle. Fuchsia flames lit his fingertips and overtook the creature.
Among the blistering winds, William’s petulant curses echoed. Then they fell and rose and fell and rose. The beast corrected itself, but the flames kept burning and Nicholas started tearing. The monster’s wings gave out. They plummeted. Nicholas sunk his nails beneath the monster’s mouth and yanked. The monster’s good eye opened, gaze fierce and deadly. He leapt free from its maw, scarcely missing the snapping teeth.
One wave of his hand and the soil below lurched to meet him. A scream left his throat from broken twigs and thorns tearing at his leaking wounds. The earth settled, sparing him from the fall, but the creature flew at him. A figure dropped behind the beast, then those jaws came upon him.
Snapping, drooling, and bloodied, the monster stumbled forward on three legs. Blood pooled beneath a long body not set right, as if the creature’s spine had twisted at the middle. The head cocked to the right and its wings were large, albeit slightly different sizes. A tail rose over its head, reminiscent of a spion. Acid spat forward.
Nicholas waved upward and a wall of thorns burst from the soil. The power of the acid disintegrated the roots. The acid burned the skin from his right shoulder and chest, now a festering wound of oozing puss. Darkness overcame his vision. He imagined falling asleep for a long nap to ease the suffering, but the guttural growl of a monster kept his eyes open. He would not die here to a mere monster hardly capable of a coherent thought.
Power danced over his fingertips, commanding all around him. Roots slithered from the dirt to grasp the beast’s legs. In the monster’s moment of panic, Nicholas shot flames into its jaws. The beast reared back, screeching so loudly his ears bled.
Snow shifted to form a cloud of blistering wind around him. He sent a blast of ice that tore the beast’s singed skin. Spears pierced limb and abdomen, but the beast wouldn’t stop. It lunged at Nicholas, claws and teeth bared. He rolled out of its path. The ground shook when it hit. Trees toppled from its large body. Nicholas called for them. Trunks shattered into shards of bark, thousands of them all pointed at the animal. In a single swing, they skewered the monster.
Nicholas lay in the snow, resting a hand over his bloodied abdomen. The serrated teeth had torn him to shreds, revealing muscle and bone. Then a gunshot rang through the air.
He jolted, wide eyes narrowly catching the beast’s stinger writhing about. A green substance oozed from a wound along the head of the stringer pointed at him. William appeared from the forest, revolver moving from the stinger to the beast’s head. He emptied the clip into the monster’s skull. The beast twitched, then stiffened.
“You survived,” Nicholas chortled.
Blood flowed from an injury on William’s shoulder, where the beast had grabbed him. Dirt and twigs got caught in his mussy hair. A bruise blossomed on his cheek and his uniform had been torn. Those eyes, as frigid as these lands, turned to Nicholas. William held death in his eyes, eerily beautiful. He glanced at his gun. William’s finger twitched on the trigger.
“Nicholas!” Arden’s voice spared him from the fate William planned. Dashing out of the forest, Arden slid to Nicholas’ side. Grime covered his form. Behind him, William’s friend followed, limping on a bloodied leg.
The breaths Nicholas took caught fire in his lungs. That fire roared, nothing like Power that gave him a twisted form of comfort, this bit and gnawed on his nerves, like a dog with a bone it wouldn’t release. Colors blurred together. His consciousness bled out into the snow. Even his natural healing couldn’t spare him, and Arden could not heal him. Most fae were not known for magic that helped others. His body battled against the acid, scarcely preventing the substance from eating clean through his bones.
“We can’t travel with you like this.” Arden turned his attention to William. “Medic! Be of use and help Nicholas.”
“Why should I?” William knelt in front of his friend to inspect her leg. “That pointy-eared bastard burned that creature and almost myself in the process. Then he jumps on his own, leaving me to die, and you,” William’s deadly glare caught Arden. “Did you leave Albie to die, too?”
Arden didn’t respond.
“See?” He scoffed. “I find it only fitting that we do the same. If he dies, he dies.”
“William,” Charmaine huffed. “We were brutally attacked. We’re alone in unknown territory with no rations and another of these beasts trying to kill us. Four heads against that is better than two, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Listen to your friend. He speaks sense,” said Arden.
“Keep those vile lips of yours sealed,” William spat. “The more you speak, the less inclined I am to listen.”
Charmaine and William whispered to one another. Nicholas blinked, trying to focus. The world became a haze, silhouettes blurred and discolored. Then a shape loomed over him with eyes of dreamy green. The last thing he remembered was pain, a vexed medic barking orders, then silence.