Nevermore (The Never Sky #2)

Chapter 57

57

I woke to a pounding headache. The pain pulsing behind my eyes in perfect rhythm with my rapid heartbeat. A groan slipped past my dry, cracked lips as I tried to lift my head, but a fresh wave of agony lanced through my skull. For a long moment, I simply lay there, trying not to let fear consume me.

Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes, blinking against the dim light that stabbed into my brain. The room was small, the walls a dingy gray, the air stale and musty. A single, narrow window set high in the wall allowed a thin shaft of sunlight to filter through, casting long shadows across the bare floorboards. Was it still morning?

Whoever Jasper worked for hadn’t thrown me into a prison cell, thank the gods. Actually, no. Fuck the gods. Every single one of them. The space was just a room, mostly bare, with a single, worn chair and a lumpy mattress shoved against the far wall. But there, curled up on that mattress, was a figure I hadn’t expected to see at all.

I rushed forward, gently placing my hand on his shoulder as I shook him awake. King Aldus Wendale, clutching his crown to his chest, peeled his eyes open and gasped.

“Have you—” He cleared his throat. “Have you come to rescue me?”

I shook my head, trying to keep the sadness from my face. “I wish I had. We’ve been trying to find you since the moment they announced you were taken.”

He heaved himself up onto one arm, swinging his short legs to rest on the floor as he rubbed his eyes.

“Are you hurt?”

The old king shook his head. “Only my pride, dear. Only my pride.”

The ripple of black surrounding his frame was so faint at first, I almost missed it. But the longer he sat, hanging his head, the more I noted the wear of his life on him. The heartache was there, as if it were tangible. And then I thought of Harlow’s story. Of her mother. And I wondered if he’d carried that with him all this time.

“We have to try to get out of here.”

“They won’t allow me to leave the room, I’m afraid.”

“Do you know where we are?”

He took a deep breath, looking up at the window. “I can smell the flowers sometimes. That’s all I know.”

“I hate to ask this, but I need to know,” I said, taking a deep breath to prepare myself for the answer. “Was it Farris?”

The old king’s eyes grew distant. A heavy sigh escaped his lips before he spoke, his voice soft and tinged with a profound sadness. “No, my dear. It was not Farris, though I fear he may be involved in some capacity. Despite what the people believe, I have never officially named him as my heir.”

He paused, as a small, sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“The line of succession is a delicate matter, one that requires careful consideration and wisdom. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Farris would grow into a man worthy of the crown. That he would learn compassion, humility, and leadership. But as the years passed, I began to see the darkness within him and on his thirteenth birthday, when he was to be titled, his mother died. No one questioned why there wasn’t a celebration because they were all so focused on the funeral and the heart of a little boy who grieved in a way that I’ve never seen. He grew angry.

“I can’t say I was any better. My heart was gone long before Farris was born and most of my time had been spent going through the motions of life without the fire I used to have. If I die before Farris can be named, the succession will fall to my council.”

There was nothing frantic about his movements, no sense of fear within him, which worried me the most. It felt like he’d given up, though a part of me was beginning to understand he’d given up a long time ago. That’s why Farris was able to keep him shut off from his kingdom. This man… as kind and gentle as he was, was never built with the ruthless resolve kings must have. And that was the real tragedy of a monarchy. To keep it, you could never truly be anything but subservient to your crown, no matter the cost.

I tried to match his energy. Be calm. Still. Though my heart was racing, and my head was throbbing and the only thing I wanted to be doing was breaking down the walls. The deep breath I took to contain my anxious nerves did nothing to settle me. So, I pressed on. “I’m not here to blame your son, Your Majesty, but we need an escape. How often do they come?”

I needed to stay sharp and focused for as long as I could. I swallowed the nausea threatening to rise and gripped his elderly fingers with trembling hands.

He leaned in close. “There is one main person, but he never shows his face. Just comes to watch sometimes when they bring food and water. No one speaks to me. It’s as if they’re waiting for something.”

Waiting. Waiting for what? But the second I asked myself that question, it became glaringly obvious. It was me. It’d been me the whole time. The king’s capture was a trap to lure me to him. I was the Hunted. And Alastor had been trying to tell me. Whoever it was, knew I’d touched the king. They knew I’d seen him. And they knew of my power. They just didn’t realize the man had been masked, and he had gloves on. They didn’t give a shit about the old man, only me. But why?

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened to send me crashing back down. Slowly, I made my way to the door, testing the handle. Locked, of course. The window was too high and narrow to offer any means of escape. But desperate for clues, for an escape, I pressed my ear to the door and listened. Heavy footsteps were coming, though they seemed faint, somewhere down a narrow hall.

With my blood pumping and adrenaline rushing through, the tracers that filled my vision when I moved began to fade. The drag on my mind cleared. I scanned the barren room for anything of use, but there was nothing. Except…

I looked back at the door, then to the chair. The footsteps grew louder. I dashed for the chair, dragged it across the room and shoved it beneath the handle of the door on an angle, hoping it would buy me an extra minute. That was all I needed as I whipped Thorne’s little golden notebook out and snatched the pencil.

Help. Jasper bad. Am captured. King here. Can smell flowers. Sun shining directly into the window near the ceiling. Facing West if past twelve.

The doorknob rattled. The king gasped. Thorne’s response was instantaneous, though his beautiful writing was little more than scratches.

More!

But there was nothing else to give him. No other signs but… I could do something with my power. Something I’d never tried before. Seeking distance from familiar things. I burrowed down and whipped my power free as hard and fast as possible.

A slam on the door shook the whole floor.

Who was close by? I reached out for Archer first, praying he was close enough, but he wasn’t. The magic trailed off for a while. Then Harlow. Then Prospector’s Pointe. Then I reached for Serene’s temple, and everything seemed so far. Magic surged through my veins, searching, seeking, straining to find anything familiar, any landmark that would anchor me and help Thorne find us.

The door shuddered under another heavy blow. I pushed harder, power flowing outward like an invisible net, skimming over the city, through winding streets and towering buildings until… there! The clock tower. It was close, so close, I could almost feel the vibrations of the bells on the other end of my lifeline.

Clutching the pencil, I began to write the word, but the door exploded inward with a deafening crack, splinters of wood from the chair spraying across the room as it toppled uselessly to the side.

Two men surged into the room, their faces twisted with malice. One of them was somehow familiar, though I couldn’t place him.

“What’ve you got there, kitten?” he asked.

“It’s just a notebook. It’s nothing.”

He held a hand out. “Then give it over.”

The king was in good shape. He had no markings, so physically he was fine. What was the true danger here? What would they do?

“No. I don’t think I will.” I’d learned to be disciplined as a child. And now I needed to be unbreakable.

The first man lunged. I spun away with a dancer’s grace, tucking the book into my waistband. I ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as another blow missed my head by inches. Instinct took over, years of dance and Thea’s sword fight training guiding me as I moved with a woman’s fury pushing me to fight back. I managed a vicious kick, catching one in the knee. He stumbled, cursing. I raced for the open door, confident I’d make it, but his partner was already on me.

I couldn’t fight them both. Hell, they were so large, I didn’t think I could manage one without a weapon. Still, I had to try. They came at me together, a whirlwind of fists and snarls. I gave ground, dodging and weaving, trying to keep them at bay more than actually fight back. The notebook dug into my back. If only I’d had a few more seconds…

The thought cost me. A meaty fist crashed into my cheek, snapping my head back and filling my vision with stars. Whatever I’d slightly recovered from since waking, came racing back with a vengeance. I wavered on my feet and knew immediately that I stood no chance. Tasting the blood trickling from my lip, I barely managed to avoid the follow-up blow.

“Stop this at once.” The king’s pointless demand cut through the chaos. He grabbed the broken chair and swung it wildly at my attackers. If not for the seriousness of the situation, it might’ve been comical, but at least he was sweet enough to try.

The men turned, sneering. One lashed out, almost lazily, and sent the elderly monarch tumbling to the floor. His cry of pain was terrible. I threw myself at the nearest thug, slamming my knee into his groin. He doubled over, retching. But his companion seized the opening. An iron grip closed around my arm, wrenching it up behind my back until my shoulder screamed. I stomped backward, aiming for his foot, but he’d been ready. Twisting savagely, he hurled me across the room.

I hit the far wall and crumpled; the breath whisked from my lungs in a rush. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up on my hands and knees. But a boot crashed into my ribs, flipping me onto my back. The man I’d kneed in the groin loomed over me, his face a mask of rage. He dropped down, pinning me with his weight, and drew back his fist.

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath as I anticipated the blow that would surely shatter the bones in my face. The blow never came.

The weight pinning me down vanished as the man rose, his breathing harsh in the stillness of the room. I opened my eyes to see Thorne’s notebook clutched in one of their fists and my heart stopped beating.

The men exchanged a look, silent communication passing between them, before turning and striding out of the room, their job done. As if they’d come just for that damn book. The door swung shut behind them with a final, damning click, the sound of the lock engaging like a death toll in the sudden quiet.

I fought the sting of tears threatening to give away my resolve. I’d failed. Failed the king, failed Thorne, failed me. And now, with the notebook gone, any hope of rescue had vanished with it. So, I’d failed Quill too.

But beneath the pain an ember of defiance still glowed. Stubborn. Unyielding. It was the same fire that had kept me alive in the Maw, that had driven me to survive against all odds. And it refused to be extinguished, even now. I dragged myself into a sitting position, my back against the cold stone wall. The room spun. Darkness threatened my vision from the second blow to my head in so many hours, so I closed my eyes, focusing on the ragged rhythm of my breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

The king lowered himself painfully to the floor beside me, his weathered face creased with concern. “My dear girl, are you okay?”

I managed a weak smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Never been better.”

The king let out a surprised chuckle, then winced, pressing a hand to his side. “Ah, it seems laughter isn’t the best medicine after all. Perhaps we shouldn’t pick fights with our captors, eh?”

I turned to him, letting the fury buried within me peek through. “You can never destroy a monster without becoming one.”

Minutes bled into hours, marked only by the changing light and the occasional sound of footsteps passing by beyond the locked door. No one came, not to bring food or water, not to check on us. As I thought over every memory with Thorne’s band of men, I remembered my truth. One that kept me from slipping into misery. Every step I’d taken since coming to Wisteria had led me to this exact place. I’d never strayed from the path, even when I’d wanted to. I’d given days I didn’t have to the Fray, to Thorne, trusting a god to keep his word and get me back to Quill.

“I need to ask you a question,” I whispered, lying on the floor while the king took the mattress. “Have you ever heard of people traveling between the gods’ realms? Not gods, but mortals actually crossing over into another world entirely?”

The old king was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his words were slow and measured. “There are legends, ancient tales passed down through generations. Stories of men who stepped through shimmering portals or walked along hidden paths to journey to realms beyond our own.”

He shifted on the thin mattress. “As a child, I remember my nursemaid spinning tales about a great hero named Octavian the Wayfarer. She said he discovered a secret door hidden deep within a mystical forest, a door that led him to a land of eternal summer where the air shimmered with magic and the waters were full of death. They’re just stories, though. Derived from imaginative minds seeking an escape. Reality is far less exciting, I’m afraid.”

The sound of hurried footsteps and urgent voices erupted outside. The king sat up, wincing, his face drawn with apprehension. I pushed myself to my feet, ready for answers. Ready for round two. Ready to run.

The door burst open and a group of guards rushed into the room. “Move. Now.”

They were on us in seconds, dragging me and the king out. The guards’ frantic urgency did nothing but inspire hope. Whatever had them so frazzled was a blessing for us and I just knew it had to do with a brooding man and his only family. The ones that did reckless things for hopeless people. And if I knew them as well as I thought I did, there was a blond man with a coin in his pocket at the helm, and his cautious, but dangerous sister at his side. Thorne was the planner, the man in control. But Archer was the hammer and Harlow, the blade.

After running down a narrow corridor, we were shoved unceremoniously into a carriage outside, the door slamming shut behind us with a resounding thud. The king and I huddled together as the carriage lurched into motion and when I took his hand in mine, I could feel the tremor of fear. “Have faith in your people because even when you forgot to fight for them, they never stopped fighting for you. Remember this night.”

Screams erupted outside of the carriage as the king whispered, “I was so alone, but I never forgot to fight. I just forgot about the weapons.”

“The people coming for us? They are your weapons.”

“And you?”

“I’m not a hero.”

“Then you better become the monster, dear. Just in case.”

The carriage jerked to a halt, throwing us forward. Shouts erupted followed by the unmistakable clang of steel on steel. My insides vibrated with anticipation as I shifted toward the door. I knew I needed to wait. Give it a minute before I rushed into a horde of the strange guards, but I could hardly contain the adrenaline seeping into my bones.

The coach rocked as bodies slammed against its sides. The door was wrenched open and I tensed, ready to fight with every last ounce of strength I possessed if it wasn’t one of the Fray. But a familiar man appeared, haloed by the dying light. Archer, his face grim, his sword, my sword, dripping red.

He flipped the hilt toward me with an ornery grin, hanging off the step of the carriage. “Stick ’em with the pointy side.” And though I knew it killed him, he hadn’t even acknowledged his father, choosing instead to wait for his sister as he hopped down and ran back into the chaos.

I wanted to search for Thorne, to take his side, ease his mind, if only for a second. But Harlow screamed, and I spun just in time to raise my sword and block a deadly blow. I gritted my teeth, drawing on every ounce of strength and skill Thea had drilled into me. But no amount of will power could overcome pure brute strength. Harlow though? She’d tossed a single dagger, and it landed in the man’s back. He faltered. He staggered. And then he fell to the ground in a heap. A brief second of eye contact was all the thanks I could give before she was off again, like some nightmare vigilante set free from her cage.

Thorne burst through the fray, a whirlwind of lethal grace and controlled fury. His sword crashed down, leaving a trail of crimson as he cut down every man standing between him and me. His eyes, the ones that could stop my heart with a single glance, were fixed on me, burning with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs.

He moved like a man possessed. And then he was there, standing before me, his chest heaving, his hair disheveled, his face splattered with blood that wasn’t his own. For a heartbeat, the world fell away. The chaos faded to a distant hum as he reached for me, a hand cupping my cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the violence swirling around us.

“You’re late,” I managed.

“We’ve got to work on your communication skills,” he said, yanking me toward him, his lips crashing into mine in a desperate, searing kiss that left me breathless.

But the moment was shattered by a shout of warning from Archer. I spun, my sword arm blurring as I parried a vicious blow that would have taken my head. With a shout of frustration, I surged forward, slicing the man’s arm clean off his body. He stumbled back, but Tuck was there. Waiting. The man was on the ground in seconds.

Thorne shoved me behind him. “Stay close. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

He let out a sharp, piercing whistle that cut through the fight like a blade. The Fray responded instantly, moving toward us. They formed a tight circle around the carriage, a living, breathing barrier of unwavering loyalty for a king that might not have deserved them.

We’d lost a few, of that I was certain. But they had too. Only two men remained in the center of the street, the hilts of their swords raised. I glanced at Archer but he wasn’t watching them. His eyes had gone wide, fixed on something just beyond us. A dagger flew, a gleam of death in the failing light, hurtling straight for him.

Harlow screamed.

And then she was moving, too fast, too reckless—her body a blur as she threw herself between him and the blade. Her breath caught, and for one horrifying second, the world stood still as the dagger buried itself deep in her chest. The sound of it, the only thing that existed.

My blood turned cold as she staggered, hands fluttering to the hilt. She tried to stay upright, as if sheer will could keep her standing. But the strength left her legs, and she collapsed into Archer’s arms.

“Harlow!” His voice, the voice of a devoted brother, of a desperate friend, of a loyal man, was strangled, his arms wrapping around her, lowering her to the ground like she might shatter if he moved too fast. “Harlow, no.”

He clutched her tight, and though I couldn’t see it, I knew he was shoving magic through her, frantic to stop the inevitable. But the blood was already spilling from the wound, soaking his hands, her clothes. It spread, pooling around them as Archer’s panic-stricken breaths filled the silence. With one hand pressing desperately against the wound, the other cradled her face.

Thorne moved through the night like a wraith, obliterating those left standing, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from Archer.

“Har,” he choked out, his voice breaking on the single syllable. “Don’t you fucking do it. Don’t you dare.”

Her eyelids fluttered, a weak moan escaping her lips as Archer cradled her against his chest, utterly defeated. His magic could not heal the dying, only rush the process and then he’d only lose her faster.

I stood frozen, my sword hanging forgotten at my side as I watched the scene unfold, helpless to do anything but bear witness to Archer’s devastation. But I couldn’t stand there and watch him suffer alone. I couldn’t look at her and not see everything this world was losing. So I ran, knowing there was nothing I could do but comfort them.

Harlow’s hand drifted up, trembling fingers brushing against Archer’s cheek, leaving streaks of crimson on his pale skin. “It’s okay,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the ragged sound of Archer’s breathing. “It’s going to be okay, Archie.”

A broken sob tore from Archer’s throat. “No. Not like this. Not now. You have to grow old and get wrinkly and I have to get bald and we have to tease each other. We were born together, we die together. That was our promise. That was our fucking promise. You don’t get to leave me here alone.”

A ghost of a smile touched Harlow’s bloodless lips. “Always trying to tell me what to do.”

Archer clutched her tighter, as if he could anchor her to this world through sheer force of will. “That’s right,” he whispered. “And right now, I’m telling you to stay with me. You hear me, Harlow? You stay with me.”

But even as he spoke the words, I could see the light fading from her eyes, her breaths coming slower, shallower. Tears slipped down Archer’s face as he rocked his sister gently, desperately.

“Remember when we were kids,” Harlow breathed, her voice so faint now, I had to strain to hear it. “And I’d crawl into your bed during storms? You always kept me safe. My brother, my protector.”

Archer’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as he pressed his forehead against Harlow’s, tears mingling with the blood on her face. “I’ll always keep you safe, Har. Always.”

Around us, the world had fallen still. The Fray stood in a silent, mournful circle, their heads bowed, bearing witness to the heart-wrenching scene. Though it seemed impossible, even the night held its breath, saying goodbye to a silent warrior. A woman that’d spent her life fitting the mold of what everyone expected her to be rather than what she’d dreamed for herself.

I knelt beside them, fighting my selfish tears, fighting the jagged lump in my throat as I reached out to take Harlow’s other hand. Her skin was cold, her delicate fingers so fragile in my grasp. I squeezed gently, trying to pour every ounce of love and comfort I could into that simple touch.

Harlow’s gaze drifted to me, a flicker of warmth in those fading blue eyes. “Take care of him for me. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

A choked laugh escaped my lips, more a sob than anything else. “I won’t. I promise.”

She smiled then, a serene, peaceful thing that shattered my heart into a million jagged pieces. Her eyes fluttered closed, her final breath leaving her in a soft sigh. And then she was still, her hand limp in mine, the rise and fall of her chest ceasing as her soul slipped away into the endless night.

Archer’s anguished cry pierced the air, a sound of such raw, unfiltered pain that it physically hurt to hear. He clutched Harlow’s lifeless body to his chest, rocking back and forth as great, heaving sobs shook him. It was pure agony.

With shaking hands, Archer reached into his pocket and pulled out his lucky coin, the one he always kept with him. A reminder of better times, of a life woven through with hope and purpose. He pressed the coin into Harlow’s palm, curling her fingers around it in a final, tender gesture. “For the ferryman,” he whispered, his voice broken and raw. “I’ll never let you wander alone, Har. Not even in death.”