Chapter 40
FORTY
Thorn
Everything moves so quickly, I almost can’t follow the events that transpire.
My instincts don’t scream at me to leap in between Boris and Crymson when he lurches forward, ready to kill.
Crymson can hold her own, that much I know.
I would have been worried before, but now, her power feels greater than even I can comprehend.
Conjoined with the training we’d done while in the Thorn Kingdom, I’m certain she’ll be able to take out the Blood King now easily.
Strange, considering we weren’t able to before.
My eyes flick to my mother, or what remains of her, to find she’s already looking back at me. I understand what all this means, perhaps more than the others. She won’t be here once this task is completed. When Boris goes, the Dead go with him.
He bound them to himself. He’s their true leader. If he hadn’t been foolish enough to discard them, they could have been his army.
And instead, they’re hers.
Crymson sidesteps Boris’ lunge, and he goes sprawling across the marble floor, right through a puddle of blood left behind from his dead warriors.
The Dead howl and hoot in delight at seeing him so weak, but they don’t interfere.
It’s not their kill. They understand that.
Part of them still fears the brutal King, and Crymson would never ask them to be brave again. They’ve suffered enough.
“Get up,” Crymson orders the Blood King.
My mother steps over to us as Crymson taunts the King, her eyes bright like the woman she once was despite the crazed sheen. She reaches up and touches us each, once, carefully, gently. Christian, Carver, Delilah, and then finally, me.
“My sweet boys,” she coos. “My baby girl.” She looks at all of us. “My love has never dwindled for each of you. I loved you truly.”
Boris snarls and rushes Crymson again, and she lashes out with claws I’ve never seen before.
Those claws tear a large gash across his shoulder, making him howl in anger and pain.
Crymson only laughs before she snaps out her arm and grabs him around his meaty throat.
His nails rake across her pale flesh, but she doesn’t flinch.
She just holds him aloft, her face split with all the fury of the Dead in this room.
“It’s time for your reign to end, Your Majesty,” she snarls. Her fingers tighten as she leans in. “This is for every Promise you broke.”
There’s no gutting, no brutal death. One moment, he’s held in her hand by his throat.
The next, Boris explodes from his neck out in a rain of bright red blood , , ,