Chapter 21 Nightmares #2
Fallon lurks nearby, like a monster looking for any crack in the foundation, and her attention shoots up at me. My shields reform as she snarls, “Knock that shit off.”
“Did she warn anyone?” Morgan asks, suddenly tense.
“No, just pathetic groveling.” Fallon crosses her arms, but her powers press around me, viselike, a headache blaring around my temples.
“What do you want?” Draven asks Morgan, distracting them, his voice terribly calm. He never replied to me mind to mind. Maybe he never will again.
“Revenge.” Morgan’s fangs descend. “Though it doesn’t have to be taken on you. It’s your father we want to punish. So, who takes our rage is going to be your choice.”
“I can’t just call him here.” Draven shrugs despite the awkwardness of his tied hands. The snark laced in his tone sparks a flame of hope in the darkness clouding my thoughts. “So, I guess you’ll have to do your worst to me, great avenger.”
Morgan’s eyes slit, his face curled into an animalistic snarl as he spews, “You’re enough revenge for me.
You chose me, and unwittingly sealed your fate.
Then I saw how you looked at Rune. It made you so easy to get to.
You threw me in the Boiler for six weeks, but our people broke me out tonight.
Having Ward threaten your guards drew them all away, and now you’re ours. ”
Draven’s cloying sarcasm thickens the air. “Do you want to hear me applaud your cleverness? Afraid you’ll have to untie me for that.”
“So much condescension. What else should I expect from someone who’s so elitist, so entitled?
” Rage fuels Morgan’s every movement, from his popping veins, to the spittle at the edges of his mouth.
“My mother hanged herself when my little sister was Selected to go with the elves. I was left alone to wallow in fucking poverty until the Ten Spires came recruiting. But you gave me purpose when you Selected me, Draven. You stupidly handed me power. The power to kill immortal royalty.”
Something about hearing the worst of my wants flung from another’s mouth leaves me sick. I want the immortal royals to pay, but not Draven. He wants better. He’s one of us.
Morgan holds a knife against Draven’s bare throat, and my heart stops.
“You should get in line behind Rune,” Draven says from the bed.
Shit.
Morgan casts the words aside, eyes blazing.
“You’re going to take a hundred blades, like what they gave my father for participating in the uprising.
And you’re not gonna call out for your guards.
Fallon will know if you do. If you call for help, I’ll take your punishment out on her instead. ” Morgan points the dagger at me.
“That’s a little tempting considering she got me into this bind.” The ghost of a smile hints Draven’s full lips. In my mind there’s a little warmth emanating from him though, a reassurance. The burning underlayment of my tattoo lessens.
“I don’t buy it. Anyone can see how badly you want her.” Morgan nods at me and I hate the enjoyment sparking in his eyes as he takes in my fear, then Draven’s, breaking through the performance.
“You’re right,” Draven acknowledges, and my heart cracks open, because I can tell that’s true. He looks at me, a promise pressed in that glance, like petals on a page. Then his attention flits to Morgan. “But there’s a problem with your plan. My hands are free.”
The ropes dissolve. I never tied them with magic. But he did, kept them on to hear whatever he needed to of Morgan’s plan. He’s been in control this whole time.
I hear him clearly, mind to mind, when he breaks through my shields, Get down!
I drop, hands over my head as darkness floods the room, Draven’s power blasting through the bedroom like a bomb.
When I look up, coughing from the debris and blood, I spot him standing in the center of the room, golden magic glowing around him in an orbit, the World Arcana and what seems like half the Major Arcana drawn, too.
I join his side, the two of us standing back-to-back as the Ascendants stagger to their feet.
I can’t use my Arcana, as Morgan still has a hold on it, but I don’t need magic.
As if reading my mind, Draven pulls twin daggers from the inside of his jacket, placing their familiar weight into my hand. I put one in each, bracing my back against his as the Ascendants rush us from all sides.
I let Draven take my weight as I lean back and kick one rebel in the knee, dislocating it, pushing off Draven’s back and thigh as I dodge forward, sliding and slicing another rebel’s hamstring.
Draven’s magic is brutal, shadows flooding every corner, ripping those trying to escape back by their ankles.
I fight my way to Fallon, noticing how she’s clutching her temple in the corner, as if she’s sending out a silent order. I smash my fist into her skull and she drops to the ground.
Behind me, Draven summons his sword, holding a rebel by the throat.
“We should keep them alive to question them,” I shout.
“Fine.” His voice is short, and he rolls his eyes as if not killing them is an inconvenience.
He draws Death, opening a portal. He shoves the rebel through it, screaming, and his sword shrinks back into a ring on his finger. I grasp Fallon by the collar and toss her through it, too.
The two of us divide the room, Draven’s portals opening for me to kick or push rebels through, the rest of his magic blocking the doors and allowing him to fight whoever’s left.
We work completely in sync, silent and rageful.
The brawny Strength Arcana who’d pinned me before comes charging at me like a bull.
I flick one of the knives into his thigh, bracing myself with the other.
Then he’s on me, swinging his fists wildly.
I dodge under his arm as he connects with the wall and leaves a sizable hole.
He’s all muscle, no skill. I strike with my fist, hitting select pressure points that knock his arm out of socket.
He wails, his dominant hand suddenly limp before I use my heel to drop him, knocking a knee out of place.
Lightning crackles near me, and I’m distracted by a Tower Arcana, electricity warping around his fist. For all my Wraith skills, I’m nothing next to this. I can’t fistfight a thunderstorm.
Draven’s voice, dark as midnight, rolls over us. “Oh no you don’t.”
Draven summons the Sun, a whip of plasma lashing out and grasping the guy’s forearm, scalding burns across his flesh, causing him to drop his Tower card, and Draven yanks him and the last remaining Ascendants through a portal.
The room is suddenly quiet as we’re finally left alone, every portal closing.
He clenches his fist, and I don’t know how to begin to apologize. I don’t exactly have a lot of experience with it.
He stares at me as if he’s waiting for an explanation. I open my mouth—but someone grabs me from behind.
Morgan.
He must’ve been hiding under the bed like a coward.
Morgan clutches me to him, glowering at Draven as if he’s the Prince of Hells. Maybe he is. Draven bears his fangs, but Morgan pulls a knife and holds it against my throat. Draven goes deathly still.
“What did you do with them?” Morgan asks Draven, his hand trembling and I try hard not to flinch against the shaking blade.
“The same thing I’m going to do with you.” Draven’s eyes dart to me, holding steady, as Morgan grits his teeth.
“You’re not taking me anywhere. I’ll take this blood traitor to hells with me—” Morgan cuts off as I stab one knife into his forearm, the other into his thigh. He screams, dropping the knife. I grasp his arm and flip him over my body, and he thuds onto the floorboards.
I’m still the fucking Wraith of Westfall.
I doubt he’ll ever forget it.
Draven bears down on him and lifts Morgan off the ground by the front of his tunic.
“What was that you said about a hundred knives? About vengeance?” Draven snarls at Morgan, his voice too deep and raw to match the smooth tenor I’ve grown accustomed to.
“Fuck you and your little whore.”
Draven draws the World to the forefront, inverting it, and Morgan squirms harder, crying piteously as the magic blares into him.
No … out of him. Draven strips Morgan’s power from him, stripping the Arcana from his body.
Golden dust is seemingly drawn out from his very soul, regurgitating from his throat and dissipating in the air.
But Draven doesn’t stop, and Morgan begins to crumble, the magic devouring his essence.
I turn away, clenching my eyes shut, my last glimpse of Morgan reminding me of grapes too long off the vine, curdled to dusty brown husks.
A mass drops, the resulting vibration in the floorboards too light to match how much Morgan should weigh, but I can tell by the odd grime in the air that it’s him.
My stomach sours, but I force my eyes open.
Starlight trickles off Draven as his power winds down, illuminating him and me. I should be terrified by the sheer might of his power, but instead I’m only scared by how close I came to losing him.
“Draven?” I want him to look at me. I’d prefer the mercy of his fury over the cold unresponsiveness that seeps from him now, staring vaguely forward, not saying anything. I force my throat clear. “Draven? Are you all right?”
He looks toward me, but his eyes don’t reach mine, settling at my knees. “Are you hurt?” His voice is awfully quiet.
“No,” I breathe. “Are you?”
The door slams open and guards rush the space, swords out, bows drawn, and magic searching every corner.
Draven ignores my question and turns to whoever the leader is and mutters, “There are more in the party near Rune’s friends. We need to find out who they are and how many there are. All but one I sent to the Boiler. Take Rune back to our Hearth and guard her—”
I grasp his hand and when he turns to me, I swear I’ve never seen that kind of hurt before.
“No, I can help.” My eyes are steady on his. “We should start with questioning Kasper.”