Chapter 21
I never enjoyed reaping the lives of animals when I hunted game to feed my family. After every kill, I would kneel next to them, place a hand to their ruined side, and offer my gratitude that their life was ended so ours could continue.
I often hunted with Theon or Eldridge, and after one of us secured a kill, we’d string up the carcass, gut and quarter it, and haul the meat back to the cabin. The stripped hides were used for insulating our windows, turned into clothing if Morrinne or Zorina felt up to it, and if neither of those resources were needed, we sold them at the market for spare coin.
It comforted me that so little of the animals we hunted were ever wasted. Killing was easier to stomach when I could watch as my sisters’ bellies grew bloated after a hearty meal, as Theon and Eldridge stayed warm while out hauling lumber in the dead of winter, as Morrinne draped a fur shawl across her shoulders while sipping tea on crisp nights.
This… this wouldn’t be like that.
I’m going to kill him.
And his death will be in vain.
I thought my fantasies of cleaving the Black Art in two were behind me, but as the thought of thrusting my dagger into his chest while he watches in horror flits across my mind, I realize I was wrong.
Except… there wouldn’t even be horror in his eyes, only painful understanding. He wouldn’t attempt to catch my wrist, wouldn’t try to hold me off while I thrashed at him like a wild animal. Sin would accept his fate as he beheld his mad love carving into his chest, and he would be grateful that it was my blade that shredded his heart.
I’d swing my wrist down, the bronzed skin of his chest reflecting in the finish of my blade, and then…
And then I’d halt my hand an inch from his heart like a fucking coward. Because the Black Art is a goddess-damned poison in my veins, a blight that has coated my very bones in unyielding sickness. His love is a disease.
My dark obsession is the antidote.
I’m not going to kill him. But he might very well wish I had when I’m through with him.
I pound on the door some more, though it is useless. The hall outside my room is empty, but a cacophony of stampeding boots and indistinguishable hollers rend the air from other wings. Everyone preparing to deal with the immediate threat, while I’m stuck in here and… and my family out there.
“LET ME OUT!” I cry, thrashing against the door with all my might, then flexing my collective to push against Sin’s magic. Harder and harder I push, but his magic is resilient, refusing to yield so much as a hairline crack beneath my pressure.
“Apologies, my Lady. I’m afraid I’m under orders to guard your door until His Grace returns. Not that I’d be able to let you out anyway, given I’m not a Source wielder. Not a good one anyway,” an unfamiliar voice calls from the other side of the door.
“How close are they? Have they breached our coast yet?” I demand.
“I don’t know what the current situation is, my Lady, only that it isn’t good. They were”—he clears his throat—“they were pretty close by the time they spotted them. Moving at top speeds through the water. Never seen anything like it, the others were saying.”
“What’s your name?”
“…Bastian,” he supplies, with an air of hesitation.
“Listen to me, Bastian. I need you to go find His Grace and get him back here. I don’t care what you have to tell him to persuade him but bring him back here at once.”
“I’m sorry, my Lady. It was His Grace that ordered me not to move from my post.”
“I fucking know that, Bastian! And I’m telling you to hell with his orders, and to go get him. Now!” I slam my hand into the door, making the hinges groan and the doorknob rattle.
There’s nothing but cold, dead silence from the hall. I take a few steps back, my hands stacking on top of my head as if the pressure there will help me think more clearly. And then my eyes snag on that quivering doorknob again. It wouldn’t open earlier because Sin was holding it on the other side while his magic sealed the threshold. But once the seal was in place…
I rush to the door and turn the knob.
The door swings open with a low groan, and Bastian startles, his hand reaching for the weapon at his side instinctively. My attention snaps to the hand now holding the hilt of his sword, and he releases it at once.
“Apologies, my Lady. I—I wasn’t expecting you. For—forgive me,” he stammers.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the threshold, canting my head. “Oh yes, I can understand how, given there are just so many people sealed in here with me.”
He dips his head in apology, and I relax my stance, softening the glower in my eyes while I’m at it. Since my betrothed was content to lock me in our chambers, this guard is my only chance out of here. And fortunately for me, he’s young and nervous.
“It’s alright. I apologize for my temper. It’s just there’s enemies out there and my family is out there too. My nerves were set on fire a bit, is all.”
“Perfectly understandable,” the elf assures. “There is nothing my kind holds in greater esteem than familial bonds.”
I nod, forcing relief to school my features. “Yes, I know. Something I truly admire about the elves. Would you… I’m sorry, never mind,” I say with a wave of my hand as if to wave the thought away altogether.
“What is it?”
I drop my eyes to his chest, hoping my face isn’t betraying my thoughts. “I know you’re not supposed to leave, but would you mind calling for some tea? It would help my nerves tremendously.”
“Oh,” he says, confusion lifting his eyebrows as he considers that. “I’m sorry, my Lady, but… we’re on the brink of war out there. The servants are going to have been escorted into the tunnels already, I’m sure.” He takes in my face as I do my best to sell the subtle exhale of disappointment, rubbing my arms as if to comfort myself. “But,” he continues, voice dropping much lower now, “I can slip away and bring you some myself. It’ll only take me a minute. If it will help calm you.”
“Oh, thank you. Please, it would bring me some comfort, I’m sure.”
He nods once then promptly darts down the hall, his head whipping around him as he goes—paranoid—of enemy soldiers having somehow snuck in, or of someone witnessing him disobey a direct order from the Black Art. Difficult to say which one frightens the young elf more, but I know whose wrath I would rather face.
As soon as he rounds the hall to head for the stairs, I try my luck and push against the invisible barrier.
It’s like walking into a stone wall.
To be expected, but I had to try before I commit this atrocity. As I reach for the dagger at my waist, I consider whether Elysande would approve of the deed I am to perform, or if even the goddess of war and vengeance’s heart would burn with shame as she looked upon her lost subject.
I decide it doesn’t matter either way and slip the blade from its sheath, holding it behind my waist and retreating a couple of steps into the room, letting half of the threshold obscure the fact that my arm is behind my back. Bastian returns a few minutes later, carrying a porcelain mug atop a small saucer and walking a tad slower to avoid spilling it.
I smile sweetly. A siren luring in her sailor. “Perfect.”
“Hibiscus and ginger. I hope that’s alright, my Lady,” he says, taking a few steps into the room to hand it to me.
He extends the saucer to me.
I strike faster than he can react, vicing my hand around his arm and tugging him forward, sending the dishes clattering to the floor.
And then I plunge my blade into his neck.
Blood. More than I expected. It’s warm on my face, thick where it pools and trickles down his neck like strawberry syrup. His armor prohibited me from stabbing him in a less brutal place, forcing me to strike a lethal spot.
Except he’s not dying today. Not by my hand, anyway.
Strangled sounds gargle out of him as he stumbles backwards into the hallway, his hand reaching for the knife still lodged in his throat. I make haste. I must, or else the guard dies. Quickly and painfully.
Closing my eyes, I inhale the scent of his suffering, allow the rust to slither over my tongue and down my throat. My wrists are the first to heat, my collective raising its head like a starved, restless wolf disturbed from its slumber. His blood parts for me like an eager whore, desperate to obey me as if it knows only I can be its host’s salvation. I beckon it forward, my head falling back as his essence hums through me. Warmth settles in my core and starbursts through my fingertips, my throat drying as the need to consume his blood, consume him , thrums through me with the vigor of a chased rabbit’s heartbeat.
Only a few seconds endure, though my tongue salivates as if it’s been forced to behold a fountain of the forbidden wine for hours. Bastian wraps a trembling hand around the hilt, preparing to yank it free from his flesh.
With the force of a swelling storm tide, I hurl my collective against the barrier, forcing Sin’s magic to crumple against the sheer power of mine, now strengthened with anguish.
It’s almost pathetic how quickly it collapses beneath my blood magic.
I’m through the door and have the guard pinned a second later, my forearm forcing his shoulders against the wall.
“Uh-huh-huh,” I warn, swatting his hand from the knife and pulling it out myself. “It wasn’t personal,” is all I say then, pressing my palm against his sobbing wound and commanding my magic there. He doesn’t fight me. He couldn’t if he wanted to. Which, I’m willing to wager every coin to my name, that he really fucking wants to.
His wound sutures beneath my touch, his skin weaving together and sealing the remainder of his blood inside his body. He watches me while I work, his teeth bared in pain, and short, rapid spurts of air huffing through his nose. As soon as his skin finishes fusing, I drop my hand and glide out of his reach before he does something stupid, like try to grab an agitated bloodwitch.
I really don’t want to have to heal him again.
“It wasn’t personal.”
“You already said that,” he says, still speaking through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t approach.
I wipe the knife on my pants, smearing my leathers with his blood. “Yes, well, it’s because I meant it.” I turn around and head down the hall but pause when his footsteps thunder after me. They stop silent the moment I freeze. “Don’t,” I warn over my shoulder, just enough hiss in my tone to serve as a warning.
“You can’t leave. It’s my duty to keep you safe. H-h-here in your room,” he stammers.
I blow out a long sigh and turn. He looks utterly defeated but not because I just turned his neck into a marbled steak. Wrinkles fold the skin around his mouth, the sides of his eyes creased as he studies me, his hand partially reaching for me. He’s frightened.
But not of me. Not of the bloodwitch.
The guard is petrified of what the Black Art will do to him when he discovers I’ve escaped.
“I will see that no harm comes to you. This was my doing, not yours, Bastian. It seems His Grace has forgotten the legacy of the bloodwitch, but rest assured that I will thoroughly remind him. Now go put yourself to better use than standing outside my door. It seems war has found us.”