Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Draven
The Aerie
Assembly Hall
The blood tasted foul.
Draven pulled back, dropping the body in disgust. They clutched at their throat, scarlet blood bubbling up between their fingers. He did not recognize their faces, but time blurred so many faces together. They wore his insignia, and they were traitors. That was all he needed to know.
He needed to find Charlotte. Damn the rest of them.
“Sir.” A guard trotted up. Another face he did not recognize. He looked down at the still gasping body and back to Draven’s blood-smeared person. Color drained from his face.
“Out with it,” Draven snapped.
“We’ve secured the Aerie,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I was told to inform you that we have prisoners, I mean, I have a message, and…is that man still alive?”
Draven nudged the body with his foot. “Not for much longer. Frankly, it’s rude to draw out a death scene. Get on with it.”
The battle had been a blur. The silver-tipped arrow hit him, surprising him more than inflicting damage. He tore the arrow free, snapping it in two and charging into the fray. A handful of silver powder to the face burned his eyes, blurring his vision.
How dare these traitors attack him in his own home when he offered them shelter and sustenance. How dare they.
He needed to tear out another throat.
The guard took a wary step back. “Sir? Lord Draven? What should I tell Lieutenant Delcroix?”
This was a distraction.
“Where is Lady Charlotte?” He scanned the crowd. There were many faces—some in pain, some crying, some stoic, some tending to the wounds of others, some forging order in the chaos—but none of them were the right face. He spotted Lemoine, her head bleeding from a gash but otherwise unharmed. She was useful but not the person his monster wanted. He needed to find Charlotte now. Blood and silver powder obfuscated his senses, otherwise, he’d be able to track her.
“Find her,” he snapped, sending a cluster of guards scurrying.
Delcroix approached, limping, and holding his side. “Lord Draven, we’ve lost contact with the Black Gate. We believe the rebels have seized control of it.”
Yes, definitely a distraction. Did he lead the charge to take control of the gate, or did he go in search of Charlotte?
The audacity of the traitors to strike during a celebration renewed his fury. Where was Stringer? How had no one noticed the obvious stashing of weapons? This was a failure on several fronts, and it worked because he had been focused on Charlotte.
He had to find her. It was no choice at all. He only hoped he was not too late.
Charlotte
The Aerie
The Dungeon
Charlotte clutched the compass around her neck as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She wasn’t lost, only temporarily inconvenienced. She was in a cell, complete with straw on the floor, a bucket in one corner, and metal bars.
No doubt also with rats and fleas. She itched just thinking about it.
Something moved in the dark. She was not alone. The lights flickered on again.
Shielding her eyes against the sudden light, she made a form in the cell next to hers. A massive form. Green and in chains.
It shifted and grew taller, chains clanking as the length uncoiled. Standing, she realized, feeling minuscule compared to the mountain now lurching forward. Its face was all harsh angles, and two tusks jutted out from its lower jaw, deforming its lips into a snarl.
Charlotte withdrew her silver dagger. The orc rushed forward, reached the end of the chain’s tether, was jerked back, and roared in frustration.
Curiosity won out against her sense of self-preservation; she took a step forward. The profile was familiar. She had seen it in the journal Draven had been so upset to find her reading. This was a victim of the Nexus mutation.
Orc , her mind supplied. This was an orc, an unheard-of mutation but recognizable enough from Old Earth fairy tales and legends. And not an it. A person. Nude and male, judging from his equipment on display.
“Hello,” she said, taking a cautious step forward.
The creature lurched forward. She moved back quickly, holding her little dagger out like it would do anything more than tickle the orc.
“Ethan,” the creature said, his voice rough from infrequent use. “Where’s Ethan? Where’s Ethan?!” He roared, the sound vibrating off the stone walls.
Charlotte felt it in her chest. “I don’t…I don’t know,” she managed to say.
The creature did not like that answer, apparently. He yanked on the chains, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining. The chain gave a concerning groan, then snapped. He pounded his fists to the floor, the loose ends of the chain flailing wildly.
Charlotte backed away as far away as possible, the cold iron bars digging into her back. Her foot kicked against the bucket, toppling it over. Its contents spilled across the floor. She held out the dagger, her hand shaking.
The creature paused in mid-rage and sniffed the air. For some reason, that terrified Charlotte more than him snapping the chains. His head tilted to one side, and he turned in her direction, as if he suddenly remembered her existence, and rushed forward. He gripped the bars, tugging and pulling with such force that they rattled. Dust and crumbling mortar rained down. She thought snapping the heavy chains was terrifying? She was wrong. This was worse. So much worse. She had little doubt that if he put his mind to it, he could rip the bars out.
“Ethan,” he demanded.
“I don’t know where Ethan is,” she said, still clutching her emotional support dagger. “I don’t know who he is.”
He huffed, then released his grip. He stalked back to the far side of his cell and threw himself down, looking very much like a tantrum.
Somehow that took the edge off her fear. The creature wasn’t unthinking. He heard her and understood, at least enough to stop demanding the mysterious Ethan.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said, pressing her free hand to her chest. That felt demeaning, like she was speaking to a child. She approached their shared bars. “What’s your name?”
He turned his back to her, facing the wall.
Well, how exceptionally rude.
“If I knew where to find Ethan, I would fetch him for you. But you see, I’m in the same predicament as you. We’re both prisoners,” she said. “I can’t say I’m impressed with the accommodations. How long have you been here?”
No response. Fine.
“Not a big talker? That’s fine. You don’t have to be chatty. Although, I’m afraid I am, especially when I’m nervous.”
She worried about Draven. The attack. How many people were injured? Were there casualties? How did Jane fare? Her injury did not look immediately threatening, but a surgeon needed to remove the arrow, and there was always the possibility of infection. She couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her.
“I’m afraid I’ve had a rather horrible day, you see. Although I feel embarrassed mentioning it. I assume you’ve been here for some time, so arguably you’ve had worse days and more of them. My friend Solenne says it’s not a competition. My bad day does not diminish your trials. I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I’m worried. People I care for are hurt.”
Finally, she took a breath. She read that expressing one’s inner fears helped relieve anxiety, but she did not feel less anxious. Draven was out there, under attack in his own home, and she had been unkind when they parted. She needed to see him again. She cared for him. She liked him. He was a mercurial, moody bastard, and she liked that. When he said something, he meant it. He used his words with precision. And he warned her the Aerie was dangerous. She hadn’t listened.
“Hal.”
The voice was so unexpected, cutting through the silence in the dungeon, that Charlotte jolted.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“My name is Hal.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Hal. Well, a pleasure given the circumstances. I can’t say either of us is thrilled to be here—”
Metal grating on metal was all the warning she had before the door opened.
Draven
The Aerie
Many things went wrong.
Draven left the assembly hall and took a stairwell to the restricted levels. Instinct guided him to Charlotte. It could have been scent, that heady mix of lavender-scented soap and paper, but it tugged on his chest, like a guide pulling him. He had to find Charlotte. The thought overrode all else, which was why he failed to notice the ambush waiting in the stairwell.
Silver dust exploded overhead, coating him. He breathed it in. His throat constricted and his lungs burned as he struggled for breath. His eyes burned and blurred. Everything burned. The stairs were too narrow to use Blackthorn. Draven lashed out blindly with his claws and teeth. With his vision impaired, he was unable to block the blow that shoved him down the stairs.
Sprawled out on the stone floor, he gasped for air. At least the fall removed him from the cloud of silver dust.
Then the stabbing from multiple directions. Steel and silver blades, judging by the sting. They came from too many directions to block. With each slash, he grew weaker. At one point there was a wooden stake. That did nothing except enrage Draven, mainly because the staker missed and got him in the shoulder. He roared and the staker—a soldier who seemed impossibly young—went white as a sheet and released his grip.
Draven tore the stake from his shoulder and repaid the favor. The man screamed, high and frantic. Draven grabbed the man and bit down on his throat. It was vile but it was sustenance, giving him just enough strength to use the soldier’s body as a shield and push his way out of the stairwell and into the corridor.
Draven flung the weeping soldier aside. He managed to disarm the next opponent, grabbing the baton for himself.
The corridor was crowded with enemy soldiers. Blackthorn sang as he drew the sword from its sheath. His vision had cleared enough to block the ax that swung at his head, but he could not block the knife that sliced open his stomach. There were too many. He suffered too many small wounds. The effects compounded each other. He was slow and everything hurt. Draven moved on instinct, reacting rather than striking strategically.
With one hand, he reached for the nearest warm body, sinking his fangs into them. They screamed, then gurgled. The blood was foul, barely enough to replenish the energy he spent drinking. Distantly he noted that the soldier wore a military-issued uniform. The Aerie had been invaded, a feat no one except himself had ever accomplished. Some enterprising soul seized on his distraction to drive a dagger through his kidney.
Draven dropped the donor, no longer screaming or even gurgling, and swung the sword at his attacker. A baton to the back of his knee knocked him to the ground. Blackthorn clattered as it hit the stone floor. Silver manacles clamped around his hands. The metal burned his flesh. Draven bellowed in pain, focusing all this strength to snap the bindings.
“Hold him still,” a familiar voice said.
The cluster of soldiers parted to allow Stringer through.
“Traitor,” Draven spat.
Stringer crouched down until he and Draven were at eye level. He wore a faux-friendly smile. Draven lurched forward, snapping his teeth.
“I suppose this is where I explain how you failed and my resentment festered,” Stringer said.
“I admit, I’m curious. I’ve tried to be receptive to feedback.” Disdain dripped from his voice.
“You sit on your mountain of treasure, hoarding it like a dragon.”
“And you think I should do what? Cure cancer?”
“A funny example to pick,” he said, dropping the faux-friendly smile. “My father died slowly from cancer. He trusted you. Was devoted to you. And you could have saved him, but did you? No. You’d rather play with your green toy than help the people who depend on you.”
“I’m sorry you think that. I’m rather better at causing cancer. If I could cure it, I would.” He tried—once. The results were, well, Captain Beckford had him court-martialed. Not good, to say the least. “Even if I could, I don’t have the equipment. Someone keeps sabotaging my lab. Your work, I presume?”
A new smile spread across Stringer’s face, cruel and sharp. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed a syringe. Draven fought against the hands holding him in place. The manacles burned on his wrists, nearly distracting him from the jab of the needle in his neck.
“It was very thoughtful of you to perfect the sedative,” Stringer said. “Strong enough to take down an orc. I imagine a vampire won’t prove a problem.”
“I’ll kill you,” Draven warned, his voice already slurring. He fought against the encroaching darkness.
“No, you won’t.”
Darkness swallowed him.