Chapter Twenty-Two
I can’t dim the glow of satisfaction radiating in my chest.
Margaret and Jack huddle together in the back of the wagon, comforting each other as the guards open the gate and Mrs. Carroll starts down the long, lantern-lit drive toward Bludgrave Manor.
I know I shouldn’t feel this way. I should be huddled beside them, caring for Jack, empathizing with Margaret. But every time the brand on my forearm smarts, a smile tugs at my lips.
I am a pirate—there’ll be no denying it now.
My hands, soaked in the blood of those Hounds, graze the hilts of my daggers. I hear Percy’s cry again and again, filling me with pride. Still, I can’t explain what happened, why blood streamed from his eyes. Could it have something to do with my curse? I don’t know if my ability to see the Sylks could also give me the means to inflict such pain. I only know that I can’t shake the thrum of power coursing through me at the thought of making him bleed.
The guards, Gylda and Hugh, raised the alarm, and by the time we reach the front steps, Lord Bludgrave and Henry are busy pulling on their leather gloves as Boris brings a motor carriage around. Warm, golden light pours out of the double doors as Lady Isabelle invites a trembling Mrs. Carroll in for a cup of tea and Albert takes the reins of her wagon. Margaret and I help Jack down, and Lewis and Charlie take him off our hands, helping him up the steps and into the house. Margaret stumbles after them, speaking softly to Jack, as if she could somehow heal him with her words alone.
Killian leans against the front columns, puffing on a cigar, his expression unreadable. He dips his chin at me, and I return the gesture, thanking him silently for the daggers weighting the front of my apron. I think I see the hint of a smile before a cloud of smoke obscures his face.
“You’re going back there, aren’t you?” I ask Henry, turning to face him as he saunters down the steps.
He sighs, tugging the leather glove farther up his wrist. “Father says Percy has had his fair share of warnings. He and his Hounds will have to be made an example of.”
“I’m coming with you.”
He glances at me incredulously. “Are you armed?”
I heft the flintlock from the holster strapped to my shin. “Pirate, remember?”
His mouth quirks, his coal-dark eyes flickering with wicked promises. “How could I forget?”
We follow a trail of blood. Bodies line the street haphazardly—humans and Nightweavers, their corpses left to be picked over by monstrous black vultures. The platform lies in a heap, but the family of four remains among the splintered wood, their skin blue, faces bloated with death. Henry’s hands crackle with static electricity, the Manan in his gloves eager to be tapped.
Lord Bludgrave steels himself as we pass, his forehead creasing. On the trek into town, I caught him staring at me more than once, but he didn’t object to my joining them. In fact, he welcomed it.
“Percy wronged you and your sister,” he said as I entered the carriage. “I think it’s only right you have a chance to repay him.”
My fist tightens around the hilt of a dagger at my hip. I removed my apron, donning a dark cloak Sybil retrieved for me at the request of Lord Bludgrave. It isn’t like the Nightweavers’ magic cloaks—at least, it doesn’t feel magical—but it serves to conceal the belt that now holds both daggers and the flintlock from Killian.
I wonder what Will would think if he could see me now. I wonder if he would care more for the grieving, desperate girl whose contract he purchased at the hearing, or the girl I was before the Lightbringer sank. Because striding toward danger with nothing more than my wits, a pair of blades at my disposal, and a few balls of steel, I feel more like myself than I have since the day Owen died.
The coaching inn leans left, wedged between a butcher and a blacksmith, its once-vibrant emerald facade faded to a pale, sickly green. Just half an hour before, the street was packed. Now, everything is quiet. Even the moon hides her face, tucked away behind the clouds.
The motor coach stutters into park, and Henry and I follow Lord Bludgrave to the door of the inn. Bloody handprints stain its chipped face.
Lord Bludgrave turns the knob.
The stench of death crashes over me like a wave. In pieces strewn about the lobby and the adjacent tavern, bodies litter the wreckage of smashed chairs and shattered dishes. Again, a mixture of humans and Nightweavers, their eyes wide and vacant, mouths gaping to fit a cry that can no longer be heard. Blood covers the floor, thick enough to lap at the soles of our shoes.
Someone moans, and I lean over the counter to find the innkeeper slumped, clutching at the broken handle of a pitchfork, impaled on its rusted spikes. He looks up at me, eyes dull, blood pouring over his chin.
He’s a Nightweaver, I tell myself. I should let him die.
“Please,” he chokes out, one hand stretched toward me. Blood pools around the spikes that pierce his flesh, a deep ruby red. Nightweaver or human, we bleed the same. He might be someone’s brother. Someone’s father. If something could have been done for Owen, would a Nightweaver like Will have tried to save him?
Could Will have tried to save him?
“Henry,” I whisper, turning to find him watching the man with pity. “Can’t you heal him?”
He shakes his head, frowning slightly. “It’s not in my skill set.”
Henry follows Lord Bludgrave toward the stairs, but I hesitate. I kneel, touch my hand to the man’s cheek, his skin already cold.
“All is well,” I whisper, though I don’t know if I say the words to bring peace to him or myself.
At the base of the stairs, Lord Bludgrave motions for us to wait. A few flights up, there’s a cry—so broken, so faint, as if it came on a dying breath.
I glance down at my hands, looking like a pair of crimson gloves. When I touched the Nightweaver’s face—when my fingers came away red with blood—I felt that same rush of power I experienced when Percy dropped to his knees. The same vitality that filled me with strength the night I stepped into the fountain. Power and control —maybe I’m not so different from the Nightweavers or the Underlings.
Maybe I’m worse.
Henry and I follow Lord Bludgrave up the narrow staircase, past the second and third landing. With every step they take, the old, rotting wood creaks beneath their feet. Theirs —not mine. I shift my weight naturally, careful to remain inconspicuous. Quiet like a mouse , I think with a dull ache in my chest.
My fist tightens around the hilt of one of my daggers.
Is the little mouse scurrying about the deck this morning? Owen would ask Margaret just before I sneaked up behind him. I can almost hear him now, whispering in my ear, Careful, little mouse. If you go looking for blood, you’ll certainly find it.
I pray to the Stars I find blood—Percy’s blood. I pray to the Stars that I have the strength to carve his heart from his chest. And if the Stars look down on me with favor, I pray that when we’ve got what we came for, the Castors will know what the brand on my forearm represents. They may take me from the ocean, but the water does not forget, and neither should they. I am the killer they fear. I am the monster in the dark. And when I find Percy, I will be merciless.
At the top of the stairs, a Nightweaver in a black cloak lies sprawled across the landing, skewered on the sharp end of a crudely made spear. Metal glints in the gaslight as I bend, inspecting the brass knuckles clutched in his rigid grasp.
Wasting no time, I break his bloated fingers and slide the brass knuckles from his fist onto my own. Owen used to fight with a pair just like this.
Only when it’s personal , he would have amended.
Tonight, it’s personal.
We come to a halt at the end of the fourth floor, and without delay, Lord Bludgrave kicks in the door. Inside, Percy stands with his back to the open window, facing us, his eyes crusted shut with dried blood. Under his arm, I recognize the girl from my first day in Ink Haven. Or, rather, I recognize her height and build. The remains of her light blond hair is in clumps; her face is so swollen and purple, I can’t discern her features.
She lets out another small cry, the sound like a knife to my heart. That could have been Elsie. I shake my head, but I can’t keep myself from imagining Percy’s arm around Elsie’s neck, the muzzle of a pistol pressed to her cheek.
“I know it’s you, bilge rat,” Percy spits. “Have you brought your masters to see the job done?”
“Let her go, Percy,” Lord Bludgrave demands. “It’s over. Your men are dead.”
Percy cackles, his laughter like jagged shards of glass. “The Hounds of Ink Haven!” he cries mockingly, doubling over—with pain or with glee, I can’t tell. “Did you really think my allegiance lies with a washed-up street gang that can’t even handle a few angry humans with gardening tools?” Shadows seep from his flesh like wisps of black smoke. Though he can’t see me, he looks directly at me, his head cocked, and when he speaks, the low, gritty voice is not his own. “The Guild of Shadows has welcomed me into their fold.”
The blood pounding in my ears fades beneath a shrill whine. I try to take a steadying breath, but the air is dry and parched. I didn’t notice it before—the stale, ashen odor—but now I choke on the pungent stench of smoke.
He’s possessed , I realize with a twinge of panic. Can Henry and Lord Bludgrave tell? Only I can see the Sylk—but can they smell it? Can they see what it’s doing to him?
When Percy speaks again, his voice is his own. “Is the Honorable Henry Castor with you?”
He jerks his chin at a small wooden box on the vanity near Henry. Percy licks his lips, mouth stretching wide in a wicked sneer.
“Open it.”
Henry glances at Lord Bludgrave, his brows furrowed. Tentatively, his gloved hand prods at the lid, and I crane my neck to see what’s inside. I barely make out the bloody, severed finger, and the black velvet ribbon—the ribbon Dorothy always wore in her hair—tied around it, before Henry hurls himself at Percy, barred only by Lord Bludgrave, who throws himself between them.
“Your human pet is a lovely creature,” Percy croons, his expression vile. “She was on her way back to you, I suppose, when my men took her.”
“Where is Dorothy?” Henry growls. And then, frantically, “Where are you keeping her?”
Percy clicks his tongue. Sweat beads on his forehead. “Such a shame. The great Lord Bludgrave’s sons cavorting with human girls.” He spits, his face crumpled with disgust. “Though, what should anyone expect when their parents are sympathizers—traitors to their own king and country.” He spits again, as if the words taste like poison, but this time, he spits blood. “A disgrace to their own kind.” And then, that voice that came before—that low, gritty voice—speaks in the ancient tongue. “Palomi havella dinosh beyan.”
I think I hear Henry sob, the sound itself inhuman and guttural, as if it came from a beast, not a boy. “You won’t get away with this, Percy. The king—”
Percy barks out a sharp laugh, and I cringe. “ Insolent child ,” says the voice of the Sylk. Percy’s lips peel back, revealing bloody teeth as he slowly removes the barrel of the gun from the little girl’s face. “It has already begun. The time has come for kings and kingdoms to bow to the one true queen. All will kneel.”
He throws a hateful glance at Lord Bludgrave, a sinister smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Percy’s voice comes out on a trembling breath, his eyes alight with murderous joy. “Even the mighty Castors.”
In the blink of an eye, Percy shoves the girl through the open window. A small cry of shock echoes in my ears, followed by a wet crunch.
A dagger is in my hand before I even realize I’ve lunged. The blade pierces Percy’s chest, just above his heart.
I don’t want him dead.
Not yet.
Percy’s knees collide with the floor as I withdraw the dagger, but he doesn’t attempt to stanch the flow of blood. He holds out his arms as if in invitation. I should question his surrender, but there is only one thought in my mind as I whirl, bringing the dagger down in two smooth arcs. Blood sprays my face as Percy’s severed hands land with a dull thunk .
Those hands will never harm another child.
I shift the dagger to my left hand and draw back my right fist, the brass knuckles glinting with a heavenly golden light. Crack. Bone shatters beneath the weight of my hand. Again and again, pain seizes my right arm, and I welcome it. I welcome the ache in my shoulder. I welcome the voice in the back of my mind that demands I spill Percy’s blood. I welcome the fury as it overtakes me, white-hot and all-consuming.
“Aster—” I’m not sure who says my name, their voice drowned out by the blood beating in my ears, a primal tempo.
Percy laughs again, the sound like shards of broken glass, and I halt midswing. “ Violent Aster ,” the Sylk whispers, though I’m not sure how the voice could come from Percy’s disfigured face. Against all rational judgment, I lean closer, as if entranced. The Sylk tsks softly. “So much like your brother.”
Brother. The word is like a lifeline tethering me to reality.
This is it. This is the Sylk that killed Owen.
In one fluid motion, I sheathe the dagger on my belt, unholster the flintlock at my hip. I aim between Percy’s swollen, bloodied eyes and—
“Owen sends his regards.”
I hesitate. It’s as though all the air has been sucked out of the room.
“Owen?” I hear myself whimper.
I lower the flintlock just as Henry grabs me by my collar and yanks me back.
“We have to go!” he shouts, barely audible over the sound of splintering wood. A fiery beam collapses overhead, landing in the spot where I was only seconds ago, crushing Percy flat.
Smoke. I thought the smell had come from the Sylk, but… thick black smoke chokes the air, stinging my eyes. I was so lost in my rage that I didn’t realize a fire started.
Despite the encroaching heat, ice sluices through my veins.
Owen sends his regards.
Henry hauls me out of the room, down the steps, fire licking at our heels. “It was an accident,” he huffs as we break out onto the street after Lord Bludgrave. “Father,” Henry says, releasing his grip on me. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know what happened. I—I don’t think I can control it.”
“It’s all right, my boy.” Lord Bludgrave claps Henry on the shoulder. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, a troubled look about him.
Henry straightens and turns toward the building, gloved hands outstretched, but Lord Bludgrave lowers his arms.
“No,” he says quickly. When Henry turns to him in confusion, Lord Bludgrave’s expression is grim. “Let it burn.”
Henry nods weakly. Again, Lord Bludgrave glances at me, flames dancing in his eyes. I turn away before he realizes I’ve caught him staring, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen that look before—the one that seeks to answer a question that shouldn’t be asked.
The fire devours the coaching inn, reducing it to cinders. There, near the front steps, impaled on a stake of splintered wood, the girl Percy threw from the window stares up at the starless sky with vacant eyes, blood trickling from her parted lips.
“Henry,” I whisper hoarsely, starting toward the child’s corpse. “We can’t leave her like this.”
Henry is at my side a moment later, his face hard. I know he must be thinking of Dorothy as he stretches out his gloved hands once more—hesitates.
“What’s that?” he murmurs.
I take another step toward the girl’s mangled body, squinting to see what gave Henry pause. A playing card rests atop the child’s torn blouse, as if someone placed it there just after she fell. The knave of clubs. But it isn’t just any playing card.
“It’s a message.” I pick up the card that once belonged to Owen—his lucky card—and slide it up my sleeve. “The Sylk wants me to believe my brother is still…” The word gets stuck in my throat. “That he’s…”
“Alive.” Henry nods slowly, his brows pinched. “And do you?”
I don’t answer.
“Look away, Aster,” Henry adds gently, his palms extended.
But I don’t do that, either. Not even as the child’s corpse goes up in flames.
I watch. I watch as Henry turns and heads for the heap of wood in the middle of the street, where bodies hung just hours ago. I watch as he sets the remains of the gallows ablaze, black smoke billowing into the sky. All the while, I hear the Sylk’s voice in my mind—the words it spoke in the ancient tongue. Words I know only because Owen taught me what they mean. Words that our people—the people of the sea—speak in hushed whispers once a year, on Reckoning Day. The day the sky runs red as blood.
Palomi havella dinosh beyan.
The judgment is coming.