3. Chapter 3
Glitter and confetti. That’s all I see. Trickling off parade floats and flitting up streets like whimsical dust dreams, it settles into the crevices of my eyeballs and fills up the air that I breathe, making me sneeze.
I never knew something so pretty could be so damn irritating. Maybe that’s how Eric envisions me.
The elbow of a fellow parade-goer digs into my ribcage. I buckle forward in gut-twisting pain as my stomach lurches against my chest cavity. Am I seeing stars, or is the world around me dimming?
I look up to find performers garbed in fiery costumes taking to the streets, adorned in bright leathery scales and spiraling ribbons that vary in shades of luxurious scarlets and emerald greens.
Their fabric wings are tied down by handmade strings, and their metal gauntlets glisten sharply.
Paired by horned masks and boots that drag with heavy strides, the performers mimic the power of the eradicated beasts that engulf children’s stories.
The dragons.
Now just creatures of legend, the dragons were once man-eating monsters who snacked on human entrails like goblins plundering the coffers of kings.
With one-hundred-foot wingspans that gulped up the clouds and drowned entire cities, their hunger for power evolved into an insatiable desire for blood and the magic that stirs within.
It was a craving that sealed their fate in the end, triggering the gods’ descension from the Heavens in a war coined The War of the Wraiths.
And although both sides suffered mass casualties, the gods extinguished the dragons’ affinity for bloodlust by eradicating their entire race.
Or so the story claims.
But again, no one tells the truth in this place.
Fake blood gushes into the gutter at my feet as the dragon performers lie sprawled across the cobblestone, slaughtered by their god-like counterparts, murdered in a dramatic fashion by fake swords crafted out of painted wood.
The applause fills my head with a hollow buzzing that feels distant and empty.
It’s a shame that dragons have gone extinct. To witness one in all its glory would be a heart-stopping thing, even if it is the last thing I see.
What a splendid way to die, really.
Another elbow, this time to the face, sends me stumbling back several steps as alcohol sloshes from cups toted by blissful crowd-goers.
Ouch. Lurching away from the pain, I press an open palm against my red-hot cheek, only to catch sight of three soldiers of the Divine Army towering over the rest of the crowd in gold-plated armor.
Their helmets conceal the entirety of their faces, save for their inhuman-like eyes, which are yellow and eerie.
They’re soldiers of the queen’s army, only they never sleep.
And much like other creatures of the undead, they feast on the weak.
A nervous sensation claws up my throat as I break through a gap in the crowd, determined to escape their watchful eyes.
I’ve seen them pin people down and bleed them dry.
Countless times.
Like the time a sweet elderly gentleman had been caught swiping a loaf of cinnamon bread from a vendor’s stall without paying. Two soldiers had witnessed his excursion, grabbed him by the neck, and dragged him up the wooden-planked steps of the piazza’s creaking stage.
To my horror, they’d demanded the man pay thrice over for his crime or else suffer the fateful consequences.
But he couldn’t pay. He couldn’t afford to lose another drop.
That’s the tricky part about bloodmagic.
For some, it rushes through the bloodstream like a river.
For others, it trickles like a little spring and dries up quickly, not rejuvenating until the next morning.
This man had clearly been using his magic to keep himself warm amidst the bitter winter cold.
It’d been evident in his fingers and toes, which hadn’t yet turned black from frostbite.
His skin had been abnormally flushed, despite the fact that his body was a sack of bones and he wasn’t wearing a proper cloak.
The searing pink of his cheeks had only intensified into a shade of blood-red crimson as the soldiers made an example out of him.
He’d been a Flameweaver—his body a wick, and his magic a match to burn us all with.
If he’d had any magic left, that is.
That had been the first time I’d ever laid eyes on a Needle, an insidious object from nightmares that still makes my stomach churn to this day.
Sharper than a sabretooth’s incisor and crafted out of cold, unyielding metal, the Needle’s end point is impossibly thin, giving it the ability to pierce through flesh with predatory precision.
Some say it hurts like a pinch. Others claim it dives all the way to the marrow, leaving its victim feeling raisined and dried-up for weeks.
A larger percentage of people say nothing at all, considering they die moments after the Needle punctures through their epidermis, too dead to form an opinion.
I’d watched the light in that man’s eyes fade that day. Then I watched the dried-up husk of his body get dragged away as they took him someplace more private, likely to finish off his fleshy remains. In that moment, I’d become determined to never meet such a fate.
I nearly trip on a fissure in the cobblestone, which forces me to refocus on my present surroundings.
If memory serves me correctly, there’s a cul-de-sac of inns just around this bend.
Past all the dumpsters brimming with broken liquor bottles and rows of discombobulated buildings that remind me of crates of stale oats, as if they’re collecting dust in the back of a pantry.
Cobwebs drape across their splintered door frames, and planks of ghostwood board up their brittle siding.
I spot it within seconds, the most affordable inn in Windspire.
A building so offensive on the eyes, it’s impossible to miss.
Its fractured lanterns flicker uncontrollably over the front door, which is marred by a thick layer of dust. Some may call it a building, but to me it’s a dilapidated chunk of wood at best.
Buffeted by a gush of wind, the swinging door smacks me on the behind, as if to remind me that I’ve hit rock bottom. As if I could have ever forgotten.
The inn’s darkness is illuminated only by a single torchlight on the wall.
Below it, a list of prices is pinned to a pegboard, which I scour.
A single night costs five ounces of Vitalis.
A fancier inn would’ve cost me eight. Heaving a sigh, I withdraw the vial of liquid gold from my satchel, which shimmers in my white-knuckled grasp.
I trace its delicate little notches with my thumb and count the notches all the way to ten.
It’s hard to comprehend that after paying for a room, I’ll only have five ounces of Vitalis left.
But it’s even harder to comprehend that this is all Eric has left me with.
No wonder people bleed out from desperation. If I could pluck a Needle into my arm and drain myself of bloodmagic just to refill this miniscule bottle of golden elixir for tomorrow’s adventures, I’d let my blood flow like a river until my body turns cold. And then I’d let it flow some more.
But my blood isn’t gold. It’s silver.
I gently tip the vial and watch as five ounces of precious Vitalis dribble into a translucent decanter on the counter with a chip in its lip.
As the magic trickles away like a wasted breath, the innkeeper walks past and pulls a room key from the cluttered pegboard behind him, which he proceeds to dangle over my head.
The key swings like a pendulum as he grins at me with crooked, yellow teeth.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” he says. “I assume you need a room?”
I pop the cork back into the vial’s opening and stuff it into my pouch for safekeeping, only to snap my head up and notice that his armpit sweat is staining his sun-faded tunic.
“Yes,” I comment sourly.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, his beady eyes growing wild with curiosity as he towers over me.
“He’s on his way, and he’s very big.”
I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the stench of his body odor, which is far more grotesque than his bated breath could ever hope to be.
Perhaps his breath and his sweat collided in a unified dance inside of his body before determining his organs too inhospitable and seeping out of his orifices simultaneously.
I daresay the sweat on his balls couldn’t even stand him.
The insolent man leans closer, licking his cracked lips.
“You don’t got a boyfriend. I can spot a liar when I see one.
Didn’t you hear about the queen’s new marriage law?
You’ve got seven days to find a husband, or else you’ll be charged with treason.
” He pauses for dramatic effect before adding, “Do you know what happens to people who are charged with treason?”
I gawk at him.
He raises a finger to his neck and swipes horizontally. “They lose their heads.” Then, he juts out his tongue and closes his eyes, pretending to be dead.
I think he looks quite good like that—dead.
“The queen’s marriage law never specified that I have to marry a man,” I remind him. Unfortunately, my quick-witted volley slips off my tongue before I can catch it. Shit. I’ve just given him a rope to dangle me from the gallows with.
His eyes widen like an inflating balloon.
“So your extra-large boyfriend isn’t real then,” he says.
He grips the corner of the mangled front desk with his free hand and yelps.
Without missing a beat, he pries a small sliver of wood free from where it had lodged into his skin and then flicks it at me.
“If you marry me, you can live here rent free for the rest of your pretty little life,” he says with a smirk.
“I’d rather stuff that splinter straight into my eyeball,” I reply, jerking my chin at the splinter lying on the floor.
My gaze drifts north, where the room key in his sweaty grasp dangles freely above my head.
If only he’d somehow manage to barb more splinters into both of his hands, perhaps then he’d be forced to drop it.
“I will give you this key, so long as you tell me what kind of magic you wield.” His eyes glint with pride, like he’s just proposed some sort of fair trade—information in exchange for a room that I’ve already paid for.
Must be my lucky day.
“I see that some of your teeth are rotting, just like your brain. Hope it’s not contagious,” I say.
He lets out a rabid chuckle. “Least my blood ain’t rotten. I hear that’s what happens to folks without any magic. The mold overtakes their bodies ‘til their brains spill out their eyeballs.”
My throat tightens. “No idea what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my tone even despite the fact that my insides are twisting.
He leans in closer. “You sure about that?” he asks.
His accusatory breath plumes around me like rancid smog, but I ignore it and watch his arm above his head quake, a clear indication that his stamina is waning.
Any second now, he’ll drop that damn key.
In fact, based on his sweat-caked appearance and his unwavering companionship with gluten and mead, I’d be surprised if he even lasts half a minute.
And I’m not referring to the item in his hand.
“Yes.” I huff out a breath.
“Prove it. What’s your spellmark look like?” he asks, his eyes practically bulging out of his head.
“That’s none of your concern,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.
He tips his head back and lets out a raucous laugh. “You didn’t read the whole bulletin board, did you? It’s right there at the button, listed under the rules.”
What? My heart gallops in my chest.
He jerks his thumb toward the board behind him, a delighted grin sweeping over his lips. Sure enough, at the bottom edge of the board, in small italics are the words, “Spellmarks must be displayed upon request. No exceptions.”
“No.” I shake my head, my words coming out sparse. “No. I want my money back.”
His laughter spills over into unrefined howls. “No refunds,” he says, jerking his thumb back toward the rules.
No refunds? What kind of place is this?
“Look,” I say between clenched teeth, a bead of sweat forming over my upper lip.
“I’m really trying to be discreet, if that fact wasn’t already apparent.
” I swallow down a lump of dread and gather up the vial of Vitalis from my satchel, holding it out to him in a peace offering.
My hands shake as I ask, “How much extra must I pay for you to forget I exist?”
The innkeeper drops his arm and hooks my room key onto his belt loop. Then he gives his stomach a pat. “Three more ounces of Vitalis should do the trick.” He nonchalantly shrugs, then whisks the decanter off the counter and holds it out for me to pour more bloodmagic in.
I stare at the golden liquid swirling around in my pretty vial like it’s a long-lost lover, as the Vitalis glitters under the inn’s warm lights.
As much as I hate to waste what I have remaining, I also don’t see any other way out of this situation.
It’s not like I can afford the other inns, especially not now, after I’ve already paid so much.
And I can’t exactly drain magic from my own blood either.
No. I only have one choice. I tip three more ounces of magic into the decanter and suck down a scream, trying not to imagine the bleak future that awaits me.
“Thanks for your contribution,” he says as he licks his cracked lips and unhooks my key from his belt loop.
He holds it out to me. I reach for it, and he pulls it away. “Are you sure you don’t wanna wrestle for it first?” he asks.
I spot a knife on the opposite side of the counter and imagine using it to peel open his intestines.
I could even hang them like a decorative wreath on the front door.
You know, spruce things up a bit around here.
But unfortunately, such an action would only give the Divine Army a reason to empty my veins and see what color I bleed.
“If you must know,” I say, swiping the key from his grasp, “I’m a Floramancer, which means that I can manipulate plants. The kinds with thorns, which I often wrap around the necks of unsuspecting men.”
A lie. But a funny one.
The innkeeper chuckles. “You’ll have to show me at dinner.”
“Dinner?” I pale, as my treacherous stomach howls in delight.
“Dinner is provided to all guests, free of charge. It is one of our amenities here. You won’t want to miss it. Sally makes a mean beef stew.”
“Right…” I drift off, deciding that his brain is so small, he’ll have already forgotten about this conversation by tonight.
Fucking dickwad.