Nightweaver #1

Chapter Forty

Tears burn my cheeks. “You’re lying.”

Owen’s eyes darken. “I wish I was,” he says softly, his knuckles paling around the hilt of his dagger, which he holds between us like a promise. “Your Nightweaver knew this. He’s known since the moment he laid eyes on you exactly who and what you are.”

My mind whirls. I am Aster Oberon, daughter of Captain Grace and Philip Oberon. I’m a pirate. A kitchen maid. I am the reason my father is dead. The reason so many people have died. The reason Owen is an Underling. I am nothing. I am no one.

Except, that’s not entirely true. Not anymore. “What are we?” I ask quietly, feeling as if, for a moment, we aren’t so different after all.

“We’re abominations,” Owen answers, his smirk almost teasing. “Half Nightweaver, half human. Me, a Shifter; you, about to be. Three sources of magic… It’s rather exciting, isn’t it?”

I grit my teeth. “And our brothers and sisters? Are they part Nightweaver, too?”

Owen rolls his eyes. “They do not possess an affinity, if that’s what you’re asking. Not like you and me. But they might be able to use lesser forms of magic, given the proper guidance. And no,” he adds as I open my mouth, “I don’t know which of our parents befouled our blood. I don’t care. Neither should you.”

In a flash, I draw one of my Elysian daggers, causing Owen to lose his footing. He surrenders a few feet, and I claim that ground, pushing him backward. “How did Will know about my affinity?” I demand. “Tell me what you know, Owen. I can help you. We can—”

A broken, hysterical laugh escapes him. “Help me?” Owen shakes his head. “I don’t need help, sister. I’ve defeated death. And you will, too. Join me, and together we will take vengeance on all those who have wronged us. When we’re through, Morana has promised we will be kings and queens of a new world—a world where we never have to feel afraid again.”

He and I stand five feet apart, daggers drawn. For a moment, it feels as if we could be back on the Lightbringer , preparing to spar with wooden knives. But we are no longer children. And these blades are meant for killing, not play. Owen straightens a bit, dusting his breast pocket. The rich, deep plum of his ensemble shows just how pallid he’s become, having spent the past months living in shadows. “If it will make you understand,” he says, a slight smirk curling his lip as he flourishes a conceding bow, “let’s play a game, shall we?”

I don’t answer, my grip on the dagger tightening.

“Annie,” he says softly, “come here.”

I turn, attempting to put myself between the two of them, but Annie skirts me to stand at Owen’s side. Her body trembles, her lips pressed tight. But her eyes are vacant, devoid of any emotion as Owen crouches, using his dagger to brush her black ringlets over her shoulder.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” he says, taking a knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle. He presents it to Annie. “Guess correctly, and I’ll share my secrets—secrets your Nightweaver has kept from you. Guess wrong, and I’ve instructed Annie to inflict pain upon her poor, defenseless father. I, for one, am interested to see how she interprets such a command.”

My eyes widen. “You can’t—”

“I already have,” Owen shoots back, his face lit with carefully subdued ferocity. “Now, let’s begin. Your Nightweaver took our bracelets when he first captured you, didn’t he?”

I open my mouth, but Owen waves his hand dismissively.

“No, no. That’s far too easy.” Owen grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He inspects his dagger, tracing the glowing purple script with a pale finger. “Ah, here’s a better question.” He flips the dagger, pointing it at me. “By what creatures were our ancestors able to communicate across great distances?”

I stare at him, wondering if his question is meant to trick me somehow. I glance at Lord Bludgrave, who sobs quietly, as if he was compelled to silence.

“Water sprites,” I answer slowly.

“Correct!” Owen flourishes a bow. “Would you like to know a secret, Aster?”

I set my jaw, glaring at him.

“Of course you do.” He smiles sadistically as he lowers his voice, glancing about the clearing with mock vigilance. “A Sylk stowed away aboard the Merryway in Hellion.”

“That isn’t a secret,” I bite out. Will already reasoned that a Sylk gained passage aboard the Merryway . However, I believed that the Sylk that followed me to Bludgrave and the Sylk that boarded the Merryway in Hellion were one and the same. But if Mary was already possessed before she joined us aboard the Lightbringer , that means there was another Sylk—a Sylk that possessed an unknowing crew member of the Merryway , just as Will suspected. A Sylk that could be watching us at this very moment.

My stomach sinks. The Sylk that possessed Mary, then Percy, and finally, Trudy, had been a distraction. A ruse. And Will and I fell for it.

“Perhaps,” Owen concedes, his eyes alight with mischief. “But do you know why ?”

I grit my teeth. “Why?”

Owen tsks. “You know the game. I ask the questions.” He clears his throat, flourishing his dagger. “How do you think the Merryway was able to find you?”

“Owen—”

“Think.” His eyes darken. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

I groan, clenching a fist. “A Sylk compelled the captain of the Merryway to seek the Lightbringer out,” I say, putting it together. “Mary must have provided the coordinates by way of water sprite.”

Owen claps, looking genuinely impressed. “Very good.” He shrugs. “Before we were attacked, the Sylk compelled Will to take you prisoner and bring you back to the Eerie. She had him remove the bracelets, rendering the protective charm the Sorceress had placed on them useless and allowing the Sylks to track your movements with ease.”

She. So the Sylk that stowed away aboard the Merryway is female.

“Next question,” Owen says, tapping the flat end of his blade against his chin. “How—”

“No,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m not playing your game.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I should have explained the rules in detail.”

Annie takes the knife he gave her and plunges it into Lord Bludgrave’s thigh. He lets out a muffled wail through his tightly pressed lips, but Annie remains expressionless as she removes the blade. Blood drips from the knife, coating her hand.

My heart stutters, threatening to stop altogether.

“If you guess wrong or you refuse to play, Annie has been instructed to inflict pain.” Owen rolls his neck. “No matter, I’ve grown bored of the game myself.” He kneels, taking the knife from Annie and sheathing it at his ankle once more. “We’ve little time before your Nightweaver comes looking for you. She underestimated him,” Owen goes on, claiming ground as he takes another slow step toward me. “I will not.”

“ She? ” I ask, my heartbeat quickening. “Who is she?”

“ She is the reason you’re here,” he says, his voice pitched, as if his patience is finally beginning to wear. “The Sylk that compelled your precious Nightweaver never dreamed the Castors would take you in. She certainly didn’t think William Castor, of all brutes, would keep your bracelets, much less return them to you.” He casts a lingering glance at my bracelet. “Accidental or not, it seems he found a loophole.”

What did Will say to me just after I arrived here? If I hadn’t taken it, someone else might have. Is it possible that Owen is telling the truth, and Will did so because he was compelled? And if what he’s saying is true, then the Sylk that compelled Will would have to be infinitely more powerful than any Sylk I’ve been taught to fear, because I was told compelling a Nightweaver is no easy feat. Especially not a Nightweaver as formidable as Will.

“He would have told me,” I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, I can’t help wondering… would he?

“He couldn’t. For all he’s done to get in the way, that part of her compulsion stuck.” Owen shrugs. “She believes it has something to do with your Nightweaver’s talent for persuasion. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been strong enough to impose his own will had he not spent years strengthening his gift through the consumption of human blood.” A slow, wicked smile touches his lips at the stricken look on my face. “You’ve seen him feed, haven’t you?”

Bile creeps into my throat. What I saw tonight… could it be that this isn’t the first time Will has lost control? It’s hard to imagine the calm, composed Will I spoke with on the train that day already made a habit of feeding on humans.

“I’ve been told that just before he arrived in Hellion, the great William Castor sufficiently gorged himself on Manan .” He takes another step, his dark eyes glittering with mischief—a look I once found inspiring. Now, as a sly smile curls his lips, my stomach roils.

My loyalty to the prince is not the only reason I agreed to go on that voyage.

Owen tsks. “I considered finding the Deathwail myself after I turned,” he says, twirling the dagger. “But that was before I was informed about your Nightweaver’s little detour.”

His grin is wickedly gleeful as the rising sun washes his skin the color of fresh blood.

“He found it?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, he certainly thought so.” Shadows wreath Owen’s eager eyes as he takes another step. “Rowed out to meet them by himself in the middle of the night. Turns out it was just a poor, starving clan of pirates.” Owen shakes his head, his expression somewhat wild. “From what I’ve heard, even once he realized he attacked the wrong ship, he slaughtered them anyway. Missed one, though. Left poor Mary Cross adrift in the Dire.”

I heard of pirate clans flying the Deathwail ’s flag to warn off attackers. But if Mary Cross was already possessed, that would mean it was no coincidence that Will mistook them for the Deathwail . The Sylk who coordinated the attack on the Lightbringer and our subsequent capture must have known Will was searching for the Deathwail —she had to have planned for him to attack that ship. For Mary to get away. For us to find Mary…

The sun creeps higher, bathing the sky, the clearing, and everything it touches in bloody red light.

The judgment is coming.

Owen sucks his teeth. “When William realized you possessed gifts like that of a Shifter but were still alive…” He sighs, rolling his neck. “He just couldn’t let you go. Thought you might be the key to finding the Sylk who he suspects compelled him aboard the Merryway .” A wicked smirk curls his lip. “He has quite the appetite for revenge, your Nightweaver.”

I look down at the bracelet on my wrist—Owen’s, not mine. The Sylk tampered with Will’s memories. She made him forget why he took my bracelets in the first place. But by giving me Owen’s trinket, Will protected me, all this time, without even knowing.

Something nags at me—something I can’t make sense of. “Why kill the atroxis?”

Owen tilts his head, his expression sinister. “I had to improvise.” He motions at Lord Bludgrave, tied to the tree to my right, blood surging from the wound in his thigh. “With the right motivation, he was more than willing to ensure tonight’s success.”

I glance at Lord Bludgrave—at the tears streaming down his ruddy face. He never takes his charcoal eyes off Annie, who stands motionless, her hand dripping blood.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my palm slick as I adjust my grip on the dagger.

Owen smiles like a child with a secret. When he speaks, his voice is calm, but his tone is threatening. “Tell her.”

Will’s father grimaces, straining against the ropes. “They had Annie,” he says with a furious sniff. “The night you and your family arrived at Bludgrave. Lured her into the woods. Percy and… and his minions. He ”—Lord Bludgrave glances at Owen—“claimed they worked for the Guild of Shadows. That Annie had been compelled to… to…” He breaks off, sobbing.

The night Jack and I saw Annie covered in blood—the night Dearest went missing—she was acting strange. I realize, now, that she was compelled.

“There, there,” Owen drawls, rolling his eyes. “Really, I don’t know what has him all worked up. I merely told him that if he didn’t cooperate, little Annie here would do to herself what I had her do to that pitiful atroxis.”

My heart catches in my throat. All the odd looks from Lord Bludgrave; his strange behavior tonight. He knew that Owen and the Sylk were here, that they were behind everything that happened—Dearest, the Hackneys, Dorothy being taken, Trudy’s possession. I understand now. It was him. He lowered the wards and gave the Guild of Shadows access to the manor. Owen used him to orchestrate all this; Lord Bludgrave knew for months what Owen planned to do—how he planned to use Annie as bait.

Lord Bludgrave meets my eyes, pleading. “What would you have done?”

I think about Elsie—picture Percy’s knife pressed to her throat. I can’t blame Lord Bludgrave for what he did. I would have left a trail of bodies in my wake to save my sister.

I look at Owen. My brother. My best friend.

“Anything,” I say. “I would do anything to protect my family.”

“I’m glad you said that.” Owen throws out a hand, and an invisible force knocks the dagger from my grasp. I expected him to be a bloodletter, too, but… only a windwalker could have done that.

He takes advantage of my surprise, seizing ground. The tip of his blade rests lightly on my throat. “I won’t let you suffer any longer, sister.”

The corrupt magic radiating from the dagger causes me to grind my teeth. He means to give me a quick death—just as he promised that day aboard the Lightbringer . To make me like him. A Shifter. An Underling.

Cursed.

I think about Mother, back at Bludgrave, holding Father’s limp body in her arms—of Elsie and Albert. Margaret and Charlie. Lewis. How I might never see them again. How if I do, I won’t be myself anymore—not really.

“No need to worry,” he says, as if sensing where my thoughts have gone. His free hand dances in the air below my collarbone, counting the nine silver stars embroidered there. “You won’t miss them. Besides, they’ll forget about you just as easily.” His lip curls. “You’ve seen that firsthand.”

“That isn’t fair,” I snap back. “You’ve been alive this whole time! You could have come to us. We could have been a family again. You could have—”

“Could have what?” He grits his teeth, his eyes glowing red. “I’m not human , Aster. I’m an Underling now. Don’t you know what that means?” He gives a half-insane laugh, the glow in his eyes subsiding. “I need blood. We can’t live among them. Not without consequence.”

We. As if I were already a Shifter.

I glance at the dagger hovering near my throat, at Owen’s pale hand gripping the hilt. A quick death by my brother’s hand is a kindness, I remind myself. All this time, Owen and the Sylks had access to me. They could have killed me whenever they pleased, turned me into a Shifter. Owen could kill me now. So then… why does he hesitate?

Again, in the way only Owen can, he senses my thoughts. “The bracelet protects you in more ways than one,” he says, cutting his eyes at the trinket. “It not only keeps you from being tracked, but it makes it almost impossible for you to be compelled by Underlings.” His jaw clenches, his knuckles bone white. “And as long as you’re wearing it, no harm can come to you by an Underling’s hand.”

My chest squeezes. “You can’t kill me,” I say, my head flooding with relief.

He dips his chin. “Not until you take that off.”

“What makes you think I will?”

Owen’s slow, corrupted smile sends a chill through me. “The bracelet protects you,” he says, cutting his eyes at Annie, “but what about her?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He removes the dagger from my throat. “Have you not seen what I’m willing to do to get your attention?”

I glance at Lord Bludgrave, at his face full of defeat. He knew I would have to make a choice: my life or Annie’s.

“I hoped your hatred for the Nightweavers would have made this rather simple,” Owen says. “That perhaps you would seek the Guild out of your own accord. I even revealed myself to you that day, near the edge of the wood. But the more I watched you, the more it became apparent that you began to care for your captors.” He wrinkles his nose again. “So I waited.”

I search his eyes for a glimmer of remorse, of anything other than empty darkness. “Why now?”

Owen closes his eyes, tilting back his head to bask in the tainted light of the bloodred sky. “Once a year, on Reckoning Day, the Nightweavers’ dominion over Manan is weakened.” A cold, mischievous smile as he opens his eyes. “Meanwhile, our Underling magic grows stronger. And yes,” he adds impatiently, as if answering a question I didn’t yet think to ask, “because of your human blood, your power remains at full strength. I suppose you can thank our ancestors for that little discrepancy.”

A part of me wants to ask what he means about our ancestors, but I can’t pull my thoughts away from what he said about the Nightweavers’ dominion over Manan . I’d wondered how Titus was so easily overcome during the battle; how Henry’s attempt to shut off the electricity in Dorothy’s brain failed. And how Titus didn’t have the strength to put out the fire.

I wonder if that’s why Will lost control—why the human blood sent him into a frenzy, and he didn’t have the power to resist.

Owen seizes my wrist, his hand encapsulating the bracelet. “In a few minutes, it won’t matter that I can’t remove this by force,” he says. “After I’ve drained little Annie of her blood, I’ll be strong enough to channel my magic through this cursed blade and break the enchantment around your heart myself.”

The ground sways beneath me. I can’t breathe.

“But,” he adds, “I’m offering you the choice. Because you are my sister and I care for you deeply, I’m willing to let dear Annie go free. All you have to do”—he runs his thumb over the braided leather—“is take this off.”

Blood pounds in my hands, my throat, my ears. If I do this—if I allow Owen to turn me—I’ll never feel my heartbeat again. I try to memorize the sensation, savoring the wild, frenzied tempo.

I cover his icy hand with my own, meeting his cold, tawny eyes with a look I hope conveys all the hatred I feel in this moment. I remember what Titus said mere hours ago, when he told me his name: Hatred is a curious thing . And he was right. Because for all the hatred I feel…

“I love you, Owen,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze.

His mask falls, if only for an instant, and he withdraws his hand as if he was stung.

Rain spatters my face, cool and invigorating, giving me newfound strength. I hold his gaze, slipping the bracelet over my knuckles halfway. “I’m sorry.” The bracelet lands in the blood-soaked leaves. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Owen takes a step toward me gingerly, raising the dagger with what appears to be great effort. “Oh, sister,” he whispers, his hollow expression void of any cruel mischief or wicked glee as he points the tip of the blade at my chest, poised directly over my heart. “I was never worth saving.”

Cold metal pierces my flesh. An agonized roar splits the night, like a wild animal caught in a trap—but it doesn’t come from my lips. Owen’s eyes widen, and I think I feel him withdraw the blade through the haze of pain. Black spots edge my vision as I collapse, staring up at the bloodred sky, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Ice creeps through my veins, swift and paralyzing. I try to fight for consciousness, but the darkness drags me under.

The last thing I see is a raven taking flight, dissolving into the light of the scarlet sun, and a Nightweaver hovering over me, pushing back the hood of his black cloak. My vision swims but I can just make out his dark hair, his green eyes, his unique constellation of freckles. It isn’t the face of a monster that looks down at me, murmuring fervent words I’ll never hear, a tear glazing his porcelain cheek.

It’s the face of a boy.