Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Thorn
There’s a franticness in that air that can’t be ignored as the five of us rush into the night.
Carver had woken up first, gasping like a man possessed, clutching his chest and begging for us to do something for her.
I’d felt that panic in my own chest, our shared connection making it impossible to ignore.
I could barely stand beneath the onslaught of it, but Carver?
Carver rose and rushed out into the darkness, desperate to find her.
The Blood Prince had been right on his heels, his calm and collected exterior forgotten at the panic Carver felt. As much as it pains me to say it, the Blood Prince has figured out a lot in the little time he’s been here.
Carver never panics. For him to be panicking now, it’s bad.
But none of that matters in this moment, because worse than the panic I’d felt from Carver that nearly stole my strength, worse than realizing the vampires seem to have found their place here, is the realization that Crymson is gone.
We’d all fallen asleep nestled together after the frenzy of dinner. I’d sensed her warmth wrapped between me and the Blood Prince, and I’d let my guard down. Because of the thrall of that dinner, no one had woken as she left. No one had—
“Crymson!” Seven shouts, his eyes wide with panic as we all filter into the night.
I’ve lost sight of Carver and the Blood Prince, but that’s not what stops me cold.
The ash of the Dead rarely floats into the Thorn Kingdom.
As I spoke before, the Dead are not our curse.
They’re the Blood King’s. I didn’t realize that one of them had visited Carver when he was a child.
There’s so much I’ve neglected to pay attention to with Carver, and it pains me to realize how I might have failed him.
And now, I might have failed the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.
“Crymson!” Rorrick shouts right beside Seven, both of them searching through the ash and smoke.
It shouldn’t look like this. This isn’t how the Thorn Kingdom should look. I don’t understand why the ash seems to be here.
“Yelling isn’t going to help,” I say, squinting my eyes to see better. But that isn’t what tells me we’re not alone. It’s not my sight that notices them. It’s my awareness.
“Crymson!” Seven yells again, ignoring my words. But he straightens a moment later, noticing the same thing I have, his senses superior now to his brother’s.
Rorrick is the last to realize, his eyes frantically searching the smoke for our mate, only to land on a pair of red eyes. He straightens and steps back, closer to the two of us.
“They’re surrounding us,” he rasps, his fangs sharpening in readiness. “They’re here.”
“They must have Crymson,” Seven hisses.
I don’t speak, mostly because I know the very real danger we’re in.
The Dead are brutal, terrible creatures, haunted by the lives stolen from them.
Not dead, not living, but something in between, a husk of the person they once were before the Blood King got to them.
They’re long past saving, no matter how much I wish it were possible.
All that remains inside them is anger, rightfully so, and they lash out at any creature with the audacity to still be living when they never got the chance.
They’re powerful in their rage and savage in their hunger. One bite from them and most would die.
Not me. But most.
Of the three of us standing here, Rorrick is the most vulnerable. Seven has already suffered this fate and come out the other side. I don’t know if Rorrick can handle the same. I don’t plan on Crymson going through that again once we find her.
“Watch your back,” I whisper low. “They’ll look for weakness. We keep our backs together.”
To their credit, Seven and Rorrick do as I say, and their backs are immediately pressed against mine.
I expected some sort of protest. After all, we are mortal enemies.
But it seems they’ve accepted me just as much as I’ve accepted that they’re a part of loving Crymson.
She’s ours. All of ours. And we’re going to save her.
In my chest, I can feel Carver’s panic threatening to weaken my knees.
I can feel him rushing through the trees.
Through our bond, I send the image of the first Dead that comes looming from the smoke and feel his direction immediately shift.
I don’t know how far away he is, don’t know how long it’ll be until he and the Blood Prince return.
All I can focus on is the husk of a woman who peers into my eyes.
“Thorn King,” she hisses, her red eyes crackling with anger. “Useless Thorn King.”
She still wears the dress she’d been tossed away in, the uniform of the Promised.
It was once satin of the best quality, but it’s ripped and dirty now.
Her neck is raw and mottled, the once deadly wound not a permanent fixture.
Old dried blood browns the front of her shift where she bled out before being tossed away.
She was likely beautiful once, but the elements haven’t been kind to her through the years, it seems. Her flesh is hanging from her in strange places, ripped and shredded, sores pockmarking what little is left.
Much isn’t left of her hair. What remains are strings of dark blood-crusted chunks that frame her face.
“I am not your enemy, Promised,” I say, but still, I draw my sword. My wings are the most vulnerable to these creatures. I could rise into the air to protect them, but then I’d be leaving the two vampires to fend for themselves. Crymson would never forgive me.
After everything we’ve shared, I don’t think I could forgive me either.
“You did not help,” she rasps, her voice strained and whistling as if too much air rushes through the wound in her neck. “Therefore, you are our enemy.”
From the ash, more and more Dead appear, all women, all mangled beyond repair, all wearing variations of the Promised uniform.
They’re the Blood Kingdom’s curse. These are all the women Boris has murdered, drained, tossed away like garbage.
Women who are no different from my own mother.
Killing them gives me no pleasure, but if we don’t act, then they’ll rip us to shreds.
In their eyes, we are all enemies, because we still breathe.
“Don’t let them bite you,” I tell Rorrick. “Above all else.”
I hear the sound of a sword being unsheathed and risk a glance over my shoulder at the vampires.
It’s clear they’ve raided my weapons room.
Rorrick holds a blade better fit for a medieval knight.
It suits him as he palms the pommel and braces himself.
Seven pulls his own sword, more of a polished, artfully crafted weapon.
They stand at the ready as I pull my own sword, my father’s, and prepare for a battle I have no desire to fight.
But for Crymson, I’ll fight anything that stands in the way between us.