Chapter 29
Alexus Thibault is Un Drallag.
The sorcerer who forged the God Knife.
An Eastlander from the Tribe of Ghent.
A three-hundred-year-old man.
My head aches from all the thoughts ricocheting across my mind.
His life threads. They must be so frayed because they’re tattered with age.
And the Summerlander magick on the blade—he could see it because he’s old enough to have learned to read it, possibly in the Summerlands.
And now it makes sense why the God Knife warmed against my thigh in the minutes before he charged the green and every other time he was around.
Because it knew its maker was near.
I sit so still, staring into his stormy eyes, unsure what to feel. In some way, I’d sensed his antiquity. He exudes permanence, sure and unceasing as the stars in the sky. I’ve been drawn to that part of him from the moment our eyes first met.
“Say something,” he signs.
I touch his sharp cheekbone, caress his strong brow with trembling fingers, then trace my touch across his soft lips. He holds my gaze all the while, letting me study him, letting me think.
“You should be my enemy,” I sign.
He’s an Eastlander. They’ve taken so much from Tiressia. So much from me.
“Yes. If birthplace decides who is good and who is not, then you should hate me.”
But it doesn’t, and I know that. I also know that he fled a life he didn’t want, a duty he did not choose, all to forge a better path for himself and his family.
And I, better than anyone, understand that.
Sliding my hands over his shoulders and up his neck into his hair, I move closer between his legs.
I don’t want to talk anymore. His breath is warm on my lips, and his strong hands make their way up the backs of my thighs.
I can feel how fast he’s breathing, the hardness of his body against mine as he pulls me near.
His eyes stir with conflict when he looks up at me. I kiss him anyway, and he welcomes the contact, opening that lovely mouth for me, threading his fingers through my hair, pulling me closer until my body presses down on his.
Heat seeking heat.
He trails kisses along my throat and lower, tasting the tender flesh at the neckline of my bodice, dragging his teeth over the swell of my breast. Unfortunately, he breaks the kiss, and a groan resonates in the back of his throat.
“Raina.” He smooths my hair back from my face and holds my cheeks in his hands.
“You don’t want this. You think you do, but believe me when I tell you that you don’t.
” A flash of guilt passes over his eyes.
“I’ve already let this go too far. Let me finish what I need to say, and then you can make up your mind, but not before. ”
My heart sinks. What more can he possibly say? How many secrets can one man hold? I don’t want more truths and revelations. I just want all of this to go away. To not feel like I’m being thrust toward some horrific and inevitable collision.
I sit back, wishing there was somewhere to go, but there isn’t. Regardless, I become captivated all over again the moment he turns his hand over, revealing more scars on the underside of his forearm.
“These runes bind me to the God Knife.” He takes my hand and presses my fingers to the scar on his chest once again. “But these, and the markings on my back, are for something else entirely.”
I pull my hand away, doing my best to keep my head clear. If the collision is inevitable, let it come.
“Just tell me,” I say.
“When the wraith had me on the ground—when it kissed me—it showed me all the wrongs I have ever done. There are many wrongs, but I swear to you that I have paid for my crimes tenfold.”
The tone of his voice rings like a doomsday bell inside my head.
“Un Drallag.” He spells the word with his hands. “Do you know what that name means?”
“No,” I tell him. I’m not sure my father even knew what it meant. If he did, he never told me.
“It means The Gatherer. Under King Gherahn’s order, I was forced to roam the Eastern Territory and gather sorcerers for the king’s service during the Land Wars. Those who refused…” He casts his gaze toward the fire. “Those who refused died. At my command.”
A sick feeling swirls in the pit of my stomach. There are stories of this, too. Not of Un Drallag killing his fellow sorcerers, but of the king having his own people put to death for not wanting to fight in a war that meant nothing to them.
Alexus did that. He took people’s lives. Not his enemies and not stealing witches away to another part of the country. Death—certain and final. For his own people.
“I have more than earned my title as Witch Collector,” he continues.
“But the moment I had the chance, I fled my life in Quezira, the East’s kingdom seat, and came to the valley with my wife and newborn son.
We prospered for a time, until the king sent hunters to find us.
” He meets my watering gaze. “They killed my family before I could do anything to stop them. Helena’s wraith made certain I relived that moment and so many others. ”
I can’t make my fingers work, too torn with emotion to respond. I don’t know whether to hate him for his past or pity him. The thing is, I have a feeling he isn’t finished, that this is not the moment of impact.
Not yet.
“It gets worse,” he says, like he knows my thoughts.
“I struggled after they were killed. My mind was a mess. I ached so desperately that I didn’t know how to contend with all the wretched pain inside me.
I became determined to bring my family back to the land of the living.
I spent months traveling the world, ship to ship and shore to shore.
I spoke with magi and witches and sorcerers and even a godling or two, until I finally felt like I could attempt the unthinkable.
And I succeeded. Somewhat. I walked into the Shadow World, but I did not come out alone. ”
I close my eyes. The world is spinning. “Your wife?” I ask, hands trembling. “Your child?” When I open my eyes, he shakes his head and touches the rune on his breast as a few tiny tears pearl in the rings of dark lashes shadowing his eyes.
“My body is a cage, Raina,” he signs. “These runes are a trap. It takes all the magick I possess, along with these runic boundaries, to keep that power subdued. When I channel it for my own use, like I did on the path, there is a risk that it will escape, that I will not be able to lock it down.” He lowers his hands, and his next words are spoken deep and quiet as he holds my stare.
“I almost couldn’t contain it after I killed those Eastlanders.
A hundred years ago, I was much better at wielding it, but I’m not that man anymore.
I’ve had no need for it in so long that I’m weaker than I want to be.
That inability to control this power is why I told you to leave me.
I was so scared of hurting you or causing my magick to collapse and letting this thing loose, but it was your presence that made me win the fight. ”
I stare at him, wondering what he could’ve carried from the underworld that could cause so much damage. Wraiths possess. They don’t devastate entire swaths of land and whatever else might get in the way. They’re not that powerful.
“Just say it,” I demand, every muscle in my body going taut. “What is this thing inside you?”
Without hesitation or preamble, the collision finally comes.
“It is Neri,” he signs.
Minutes later, I’m pacing the length of the cavern.
I feel waylaid, enough that the stupor of a pretty face, mysterious eyes, and a beautiful body—a spell I’ve been under for many, many days now—has evaporated.
I’d wanted to know everything that Alexus just told me—asked for it, even.
But my mind can’t work things out anymore.
Though we’ve rested, I’m still sleep-deprived and half-starved, living off a little crow meat, bits of fruit, and sweetwater.
My nerves are beyond rattled, and though I’m more lucid than I have been in days, my mind is in absolute chaos.
Of all the horrendous possibilities, Alexus has Neri inside him.
Even if Neri is only partly responsible for the Frost King’s rule, he’s still a cruel, dead god who should be safely forgotten in the Nether Reaches.
For several more excruciating minutes, I’m sure that Alexus is lying, but when I ask if he’s being false and he denies it, I sense the truth in him.
He stands and leans against the cave wall, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me. I stop pacing and toss his shirt at him. “Put it on,” I sign.
I’m angry. Confused. Upset. I don’t know what any of this means, but I don’t need all those muscles mucking up my thoughts even further.
Enough damage has been done as it is. No wonder he seemed ancient.
He’s been alive for three fucking centuries, and a god—old as a millennium—inhabits that body I have so craved.
I cover my face with my hands and try to steady my breathing.
At least we didn’t…
At least he didn’t let me…
Gods’ death. Neri could’ve so easily been inside me. I’m not certain how that works, if Neri would have known, but for me, there would’ve been no coming back from that. I would’ve felt his terrible presence staining my core for the rest of my days.
I whip around, my hands violent in their command. “There is more. I know it. Say it.”
“There’s no more. All is said that you need to know, and it ended just as I thought it might.
” He holds up his hands in mock defense, but I see a hint of irritation in his eyes.
“And rightfully so. I don’t blame you for your disgust. I had a feeling the truth might stop the wandering hands and feverish kisses. ”
“Then you should have told me before!” I sign, pounding out the words. “And I do not have wandering hands!”