Chapter 34
Nizzara places the Jaxelli book on her nightstand next to The King of Kings and three other books she appears to be working her way through.
I don’t understand. Nil sends me to steal darkened souls. Murderers. Thieves. Traitors. Nothing about Nizzara is fitting that mold.
I mentally prepare myself to dive into her memories. There has to be something she did to deserve Nil’s attention, something cruel and awful. The anticipation bubbles in my chest for those euphoric memories, but also dread. Because if I find nothing, I am doomed to wreck this woman.
And if I do find something cruel and awful . . . A twinge sours my gut.
No, it wouldn’t matter. I’m a deathwalker. This is what I do.
“Thank you,” she says, exhaustion clinging to her, “for the food.”
She lays her head down, a far-off gaze in those black eyes. A memory—the same one that has popped into her current thoughts at least four times tonight—surges into my mind again.
I’m there again, in the dark coves surrounded by ancient books and shelves. Soriah clenches her fists, her gaze hardening as she yells, “Because you are not mine!”
The crack splits, straight through my chest. Every emotion Nizzara felt in that moment becomes mine. It hits me the same as it did last time, and the time before that.
Fucking hard.
I take a deep breath and make the plunge. Memories wash over me in a fury of blinding gold light and shimmering onyx. Emotions and images so strong my breath is sucked away. A lifetime of memories to sort through. They pulse past me, one after the other, like priceless fortunes flying by—too many to gather them all.
A party at Zo castle, she shares her food with a bondslave, then beats a fifth-tier scholar at a trivial debate about the velocity needed to break a jawbone.
In the Zo library, a sixth-tier scholar tells her she can’t read the Bible of Kiya in a day, so she does.
At a dress shop in Zarr city, she leaves gold ren for a pregnant woman.
In her room, crying.
In the training room, beating a punching bag until her knuckles are bloody.
In a room full of people, no one looking her in the eyes.
Her father slapping her for defending a bondslave who lost a letter. He recoils and apologizes to her before leaving, his fists trembling.
In the training room with her level-four duel coach, learning a standing backflip combined with a three-dagger throw. She watches it once and masters it on her first try.
Listening to Tarella sing at a spring ball.
Liha gossiping about the Zem queen.
Alone, standing over a hot bubble bath. So much physical pain. Pain in her back, like razors sawing back and forth across her skin, but her body is not visibly injured. Nothing but smooth, glistening skin when her robe falls—
I shut the memories down immediately and gasp from the weight of her emotions still flooding through me. When I finally regain my wits, I peer over to find her curled on her side, fast asleep, her long, smooth leg peeking out of that damned nightgown. Her hands clench the black satin sheets as she lets out a soft whimper.
A nightmare.
I tell myself it’s because I need to gain her trust. That’s why I stay.
My ghost of a hand reaches out, brushing her fist that’s balled in the sheets. When her fingers relax and the angle of her brows soften at my touch, I tell myself it’s a coincidence.
Until her eyes flutter, and a memory pops into her sleepy consciousness.
She’s in the training room, sitting on the floor, staring at the long, weighted bar.
She’s in pain.
She’s starving.
She’s tired.
And she’s on the verge of tears.
Until she hears my voice.
Until she feels my cool darkness embrace her. And I feel the twinge in her chest, like a weight being removed in my presence.
The memory fades away as she’s pulled into a deeper sleep.
“You cruel little beast,” I say, taking her hand.
After she’s long asleep, I materialize to turn off the chandelier lights, but when I reach the switch, I find myself staring at her, not wanting to lose this view. My hand falls away from the wall. Even in her sleep, she is regal and polished, her expression both soft and hard. Her body is the same. If I didn’t know a thing about her, I’d say she’s the portrait of a natural-born ruler. But I do know things about her, and she is someone I’d choose to rule in my stead. I glance at her manicured nails and supple, moisturized skin, then down at myself. For the first time in ten years, I care about my appearance. I need a bath and a shave.
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter what I look like.
I reach for the light switch again but stop once more when I see her stack of books.
The Written History of the Jaxelli Warriors sits on top of The King of Kings, then Myths and Moons, then—
A romance novel.
Another glance at her sleeping face goads me into opening the Jaxelli book. A bookmark with notes scribbled on it falls out. I pick it up and read, smirking at her sharp, hurried handwriting.
The note has many points of their history, including their war between Light and Dark Warriors. She’s mapped out their six elemental powers, fire, water, earth—which are common to the Light Jaxelli—and blood, mystic, sky—more common for the Dark Jaxelli.
I slide the bookmark back in and stack it on to The King of Kings. I’m about to turn the light off when curiosity gets the better of me.
I pluck the romance novel from the pile and flip through its pages. Sure enough, there’s a scribbled bookmark. I open it, scanning for an annotation or marker but there is none, so I read the page.
Together they lay in the wild grass, watching the stars. Her family hunted demons like him. She should let him go back to where he came from, and she’d return to the ball still raging in the distance. She was about to do just that for his sake when his fingers grazed hers.
First a graze, then a weaving and pulling. Gently, he tugged her closer, until their noses were a breath apart.
“I don’t want you to get captured,” she whispered.
He only smiled and said, “You’ve already captured me.” And he kissed her—
My eyes find Nizzara, roaming the smooth plains of her face and her lips forming that sensual curve.
I turn off the lights and spirit away from her.
I don’t even know where I’m going until the icy wind hits, sinking into my soul. I touch down and take a knee, bowing.
Nil forms in front of me. My shiver is not from the cold. It’s from his shadow form. Tendrils of his shadows graze my skin, testing, prodding, looking for an opening to gut my soul. I bare my teeth at them, showing no fear. They like fear.
“Why do you return empty handed?” Nil’s voice is a hiss of many souls.
“Why do you seek the girl?” I ask.
The shadows snap at me as if my question angers him. “That is not your concern.”
“I will pay for the answers to my questions,” I say before I come to my senses and change my mind.
Before I can take my offer back, a long dark shadow plunges through my chest. Unworldly pain erupts in every corner of my being as the shadow takes part of my soul, consuming the small shred of my being. When it is done, I feel the difference. If I could see my own soul, I know it’d be darker. My thoughts are sharper, warped in a way that allows less light into them.
“I have paid,” I say through clenched teeth.
“There is a war, and she will become a very important piece in it. If she survives.”
“So, she has done nothing to deserve her capture?”
Nil hisses. “Be careful, deathwalker. I know more than any, the cost of a heart stolen.”
“She does not own my heart.”
His shadows crawl over me, nipping.
“What is she?” I grind out. “What is a pure soul?”
“There are many names for what she is,” he says from all directions. “She is like me. Born of high power.” I hear the malicious smile in his voice.
“That’s why I cannot tear her soul? That’s why she must give it to me?”
“Yes.”
An ache races up my forearm and I realize I”m clenching my fists. “What will you do to her?”
A snap from his shadows pierces my shoulder. “That is certainly not your concern. Many seek her. I am the lesser evil. I assure you.”
“What if I refuse to take her soul?”
Fen chuckles from somewhere behind me in his spirit form.
Nil clips his words. “If you fail, I will send another, and you will cease to exist.”