Nightweaver #1

Chapter Thirty-Two

My heart thunders with every hoofbeat as Will and I race to Bludgrave. He pulls on Nutmeg’s reins as we near the manor, and I do the same to slow Caligo to a trot. From the outside, everything appears relatively normal. Only, the music has stopped, and an eerie silence blankets the night air, heavy and stifling. No chattering voices or tinkling glasses penetrate the dreadful stillness.

I dismount Caligo and start for the kitchen door on the east wing of the house. I’m reaching for the knob, when—

“Stop,” Will hisses. “You can’t—”

“My family is in there!”

“And so is mine,” he says calmly, placing his hand atop my own. “If we want to save them, we can’t just go barging in there, guns blazing.”

“Damn it,” I mutter, remembering my severe lack of weaponry. “You have a gun?”

He withdraws his hand from mine, heaves a pistol from his waistband. “Follow me.”

We tiptoe along the exterior wall, peering around the corner at the front of the manor. I swallow a small scream, and Will curses violently under his breath.

Impaled on a spike at the center of the drive, a woman’s mauled corpse hangs limp, her face turned toward the sky, mouth open in what appears to be one last cry of agony.

“Is that—”

“Mrs. Carroll,” a familiar voice answers from over my shoulder.

I whirl to find Lewis standing behind me, his face grim, a finger pressed to his lips. He turns, motioning for us to follow him back toward the kitchen, but Will seizes my arm.

“He could be possessed,” he whispers.

“He isn’t,” I say, shirking his grip. “I would know.”

“Would you?” In one swift movement, Will blocks my path. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m cursed, remember?” I step around him, toward where Lewis waits at the kitchen door. “It’s the only good thing about it.”

But Will isn’t convinced, clearly, because when we catch up to Lewis, he draws a wicked-looking knife from his coat pocket and holds out his hand expectantly. I recognize the pocketknife with a sudden chill—the blade that carved the message into Mr. Hackney’s and Mrs. Hackney’s foreheads.

“Your hand,” Will says calmly.

Lewis lets out a long, frustrated sigh, surrendering his palm.

Will makes a quick, shallow cut. He brings the edge of the blade to his mouth, and—

I gasp as he licks the blade, collecting the blood on his tongue in a single, dutiful swipe. He closes his eyes, though it does little to hide the golden glow of his irises, and when he opens them again, they are their usual emerald green.

Until now, I never thought I would be disgusted by anything Will did. But… as shocked as I am by the shameful act, something about the blood pooling in Lewis’s palm seems to call to me, its whisper as familiar to me as the lulling voice of the waves.…

I shake my head. “Was that really necessary?”

Will wipes his mouth, tucking the bloody knife back into his coat pocket. “When a Sylk is in possession of a human, the blood tastes of sulfur.”

“Lovely,” Lewis says, wiping his palm on his shirt. “If you’re satisfied…?”

Will nods, and we follow Lewis into the kitchen. As my brother locks the door behind us, Father throws his arms around me, weeping softly.

“Where’s Mother?” I whisper, looking over his shoulder. “Elsie? The others?”

Father trembles, sobbing. The room is empty but for Killian leaning against the wall, shaking his head.

I draw away from Father, and Lewis pats him gently on the back. “What’s going on?” I ask my brother. “How did you slip away?”

“I came here as soon as I realized something was wrong.” Lewis rubs the nape of his neck, motioning at the vast array of kitchen knives and cleavers he gathered. “I figured the rules didn’t apply in a situation like this.”

“And what exactly is the situation?” Will asks, lingering near the door, his arms crossed.

“Trudy Birtwistle is possessed by a Sylk,” Killian answers, giving Will a look .

My stomach twists into knots. I thought I saw a shadow around her head this evening, but I was too distracted to give it any real consideration. “Is it—”

“I believe so.” Killian’s forehead creases. “After Percy’s death, the Sylk would have needed a new body to inhabit. Trudy and her father were staying in another inn nearby; it must have thought she’d make a good host. Trudy would have access to Bludgrave—to you.”

“To Aster?” Lewis demands, drawing up at my side. “Why would a Sylk need access to Aster?”

My chest tightens. “When Owen died…” I try to conjure the right words to explain everything that’s happened since the day the Lightbringer sank. I turn toward him, but the wood creaking underfoot gives me pause. “Wait—” I look around at the doors, free of any barricades. “Are we safe here?”

Killian inclines his head. “The room is sealed by magic. No one can enter without my permission, and we can’t be heard beyond these walls.”

I clench my fists. “So you’re hiding in here while everyone else is being slaughtered out there?”

“It’s not that simple,” Killian says gently. “Trudy let a troop of Underlings into the manor. They’ve taken hostages.”

“Hostages?”

He dips his chin, his eyes dark. “They’ve promised to leave them unharmed. The Guild of Shadows has only one request.”

“And that is?”

Killian fishes a cigar from his coat pocket, lights it. He takes a long drag, his expression grim. “You, Aster. They want you.”

My heartbeat falters, my mouth suddenly dry. “Me?”

Lewis takes another step, standing between Killian and me. “How do you know that? You were already here by the time I slipped away.”

“Here? What would you be doing in the kitchen?” I ask, eyeing the admiral.

“I grew bored of the party,” Killian says smoothly. “I thought I’d keep Philip company.”

Philip. “I didn’t know you two were friends.” Truthfully, I never saw Killian and my father so much as say hello to each other in passing, much less hold a conversation. Killian never lingered in the kitchen before, not even when Henry occupied the space.

“We share some common interests.” Killian gives me a tight smile. “Don’t we, Philip?” His brows draw together. “Philip?”

Father takes a seat on a rickety wooden stool, his face a pale shade of green. “I won’t…,” he mumbles, his eyes bulging, the veins in his forehead like worms crawling beneath his skin. “Won’t do it…”

“Get back!” The instant the words leave Will’s mouth, Father lurches from the stool, a blade in his grasp. Will seizes his wrist and slams him against the wall. Father writhes, fighting to break free.

“Aster,” Father sobs even as he struggles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

At first, I think he’s possessed—that a Sylk has taken control of his body—but something about the wild look in his eyes gives me pause. If a Sylk chose Father for a host, he wouldn’t be able to fight it, would he?

Will grits his teeth, attempting to wrench the knife from Father’s grasp. “He’s been compelled.”

Compelled. Of course—Father isn’t fighting a Sylk. He’s fighting his own mind.

“Urge him to sleep,” Killian orders, starting toward them.

“I’m trying. The magic—it’s fighting me—”

Father wails, the sound fracturing a piece of my heart. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he cries, as if arguing with someone no one else can see, his eyes glazed. “Please, don’t make me hurt my daughter!”

“Philip!” Killian’s voice resonates with the command. “Who did this to you?”

Father’s eyes refocus, and I catch a glimpse of the kindness before something wild takes its place. “‘ Look in her trunk ,’ they said.” Foam bubbles over his lips. “‘ Wound the girl Aster Oberon, but not fatally .’ Only weaken. Weaken her. Stab her. The knife… the trunk…”

Father’s body convulses as Lewis and I watch in horror. I’m helpless in a way I’ve never felt before.

“Who, Philip?” Killian demands. “Who told you to do this?”

At once, Father goes still, his body limp under Will’s weight. His eyes loll, fixating on a spot on the floor. He doesn’t struggle when Killian takes the knife from his weak grasp. Will and the admiral share a look, and Will releases Father, allowing Lewis to lead him back to the wooden stool.

“Father?” I kneel beside him despite Will’s look of protest.

Father lifts his head slightly, his features stark. “Aster,” he says feebly, raising his shaking hand to reach for my face. With trembling fingers, he touches one of the pearl earrings, his eyes remote. He smiles, a sad, faraway smile. “I remember the day I gave these to your mother. She looked so beautiful. So beautiful…” He drops his hand, and his head falls. He stares once again at the floor, his expression blank.

“Father?” I whisper, taking his hand.

His only response is a gentle squeeze. Whatever has hold of him… Father is still in there.

I look up at Will, who is examining the knife, rusted with dried blood. “Margaret found it under Annie’s bed,” I tell him. “The day before you left.”

His brows draw together. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I forgot.” A half-truth. That night, when Will told me he was leaving, I decided to keep the knife for myself. To hunt the Sylk alone. But over the past few weeks, I thought little about the knife or Annie’s connection to it, considering it only another attempt by the Sylk to get in my head.

“You forgot?” Will fixes his keen eyes on me. “Margaret found the knife that gutted the family’s atroxis under my little sister’s bed and you forgot to mention it?”

“Oh, so now this is my fault?” I stand, squaring off with Will. “If you hadn’t left—”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Will sets the knife on the counter’s edge with a loud clank , and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lewis take a warning step in his direction. But Will’s gaze remains locked with mine, ever-searching, as if we were the only two people in the room. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

“Enough!” Killian barks. “The two of you are acting like children.”

Will scoffs, and Killian fixes a stern look on his nephew.

Will frowns, turning his wounded gaze on me. “I never wanted to lie to you,” he says softly, his expression tender. “But the truth—” His eyes widen as he grabs me by the shoulders, shoving me behind him.

Will stands with his back to me, hands outstretched in a placating manner. “Philip,” he says, his voice deep. “You don’t want to do this.”

Father had stirred from his stupor and taken hold of the knife once more. Lewis, armed with two short blades, stands beside Will, facing Father head-on.

“Father, please,” Lewis pleads. “Drop the knife.”

Father trembles, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I won’t make you stop me.” He nods slowly, as if he’s made up his mind. “But I can’t fight it.” His eyes meet mine—his kind eyes, Owen’s eyes—and in that moment, I know he’s beaten into submission whatever compulsion overtook him. “My sweet Aster… I always knew they’d come for you. But I won’t let them take you. I won’t.”

It happens so fast, but time seems to slow, the seconds spiraling into eternity as Father turns the knife inward, plunging it into his chest.