Chapter 41 | Sephania
Sephania
Skar throws on his red-gold cloak over his shoulders, clasping it at the front. Vallan runs into another room to gather something. Garroway cracks his knuckles, waiting for commands. The quiet conference room is in abrupt upheaval. Biting my lip nervously, I look at Skar.
He nods and gathers himself, taking a deep breath. “One more shadow portal should do it,” he says, clearly not liking the fact he has to drain even more energy. “Will get us there fastest.”
“Then let’s go!” I yell.
Vallan returns. I have no idea where he went or what he gathered, and it vexes me.
“Come on, we’re wasting time,” I tell my mates.
Skartovius puts his palms against the floor. Slowly, my shadow curls away from my body, as does Vallan’s and Garro’s. They merge together, coalescing into a large inky circle of darkness that shimmers and pulsates.
Skar closes his eyes to make the destination known. I know how shadowwalking works now, and he needs to lock onto a living being’s shadow to “walk” into.
Luckily, he’s just seen Jinneth and Old Endolf through Garroway’s mouse’s eyes. He has them fresh in his head and knows their exact location, so it shouldn’t be a problem to—
“Something’s wrong,” Skartovius growls. His eyes shoot open, a thread of confusion on his brow.
“What do you mean?” I ask impatiently. My blood runs cold at his expression.
He steps onto the roiling shadow on the floor . . .
And nothing happens. His boot connects with solid marble past the shadow portal.
“Fuck.” He bares his teeth in a grimace.
Skartovius Ashfen is not a man unaccustomed to getting what he wants. To see him immediately frustrated pains me, makes me angry. “What’s going on, Skar?”
“Something is blocking my portal.” He shakes his head, flabbergasted. “I-I can’t bring us to the Firehold.”
“What?” My exasperation flares. “What do you mean you—”
“I mean what I said, dammit!”
The shadows lose their focus, snapping away from the floor and righting themselves along our bodies. In seconds, the useless portal has vanished completely.
“Oh fuck me True,” I moan. My hands go to my head. I’m on the verge of a meltdown. “Wh-What do we do?” My gaze scans each handsome face, everyone at a loss.
Vallan goes into action first. “I’m getting the carriage. Be ready at the front.” He takes off before anyone can stop him, the huge man’s lumbering steps echoing in the distance as he leaves the room again.
It’s a good idea: Since we can’t do this automatically, we’ll have to do it manually.
I spin on Skar. His brow is creased, eyes dancing like he’s thinking hard about what might be happening.
“Has anything like this happened before?” I ask. “What could possibly block your portal?”
“No, this is new. No idea what’s causing it.” His voice is clipped, tinged with wrath and rage.
The Lord of Manor Marquin is ready to explode.
“Could you be drained from reading my thoughts?” Garroway asks.
“I feel fine now. Recovered.”
“Aye, Master, but your hold over me is, erm, tenuous and stretched more than ever before.” He says the second half gently, trying not to further Skar’s temper.
With a simple grunt, Skartovius turns away from us. “I suppose it’s possible.”
He sounds embarrassed. Ashamed he’s failed. Noticing the stiffness in his shoulders, I put a hand on his arm and he slowly turns. “It’s my fault,” I say.
His eyebrows arch.
“If I’d never given Garroway and you my Loreblood, your connection to each other would be strong. We wouldn’t be wondering—”
His fingers curl under my chin, turning my words into a sharp inhalation that has me burning inside when he looks down at me with a small smile.
Even behind those furious gold-flecked crimson eyes, he has enough in him to give me a smile.
“None of this is your fault, Sephania. We all pine for your blood. We gladly took it when offered. We are gluttonous vampires. Do not for a single moment place the blame of this on your shoulders.”
My eyes sting.
Garro adds, “Master is right. This isn’t your doing, lass. Something nefarious is going on. I’m sure of it.”
I swallow hard, nodding. It takes a moment for me to speak around the buzzing in my head. “Then we’d best get moving before we find out what that might be.”
Skar nods. His smile slowly disappears, and the tender moment breaks. Over my shoulder, he says, “Cub, you and Vallan take Sephania with you to Nuhav. Rescue Jinneth and whatever concoction they’ve come up with.”
My brow furrows. “What about—”
“We need someone to remain in Olhav. I have a bad feeling about leaving our life here unattended while you gallivant to the Grimsons. I will go to the Chained Sisters and make sure the Iron Sister and the others are safe.”
I shake my head, unwilling to let his arm go when he begins to pull away. “Please,” I say in a hushed voice. “Come with us, Skartovius.”
His hand comes up and tilts my chin. He leans down and smashes his lips over mine, and the sudden need to have him is so great I think I’ll die if his lips leave mine. The taste of him, the dominance of him—I want it all.
“I will be there shortly,” he murmurs in the shell of my ear, “once I tend to affairs up here, little temptress. Perhaps my shadowwalking will work in a short while, when I’m away from the manor.”
And me. Away from me. The thought slams into my gut. He thinks I might have something to do with his ability not working, but he refuses to say it.
I bite back tears and a vicious retort.
His perfect lips curl in a smirk as he reads my face. “I’ll know where to find you, love. I always know.”
“Come for me.”
“Go. Get to the carriage. I’m not far behind.”
Skartovius gives me a gentle shove. Garroway takes my hand and pulls me out of the conference room, and I’m forced to rip my gaze away from Lord Ashfen once we reach the door.
Outside, I hear the whinnying and clopping of impatient horses, goaded on by Vallan’s whistle and growl. “Are we going, or not?” Vall’s voice booms through the windows of the manor.
With one last glance at Garroway, seeing as much trepidation and worry in his eyes as I feel in mine, we nod to each other and rush out of Manor Marquin, into the dark night.
We make it to Nuhav in record time, Vallan spurring the horses on with the whip until I worry they’ll keel over.
This stock is bred for endurance, and each crack only makes the steeds dig harder, hooves crashing against rough ground and gravel as we descend the mountain pass.
The iron-wrought gate separating the two cities looms ahead, the wary dhampir guard waiting and turning when he hears our carriage careening down the road, pushing past the mist and foliage.
The nostrils of the horses steam as they barrel toward the door at a full gallop, creaking the cart behind us on wobbly wheels.
“Vallan . . .” I trail off from the bench, eyeing the rapidly closing distance of our carriage to the gate.
The guard starts to backpedal into one of the tower doors when he realizes we’re not slowing down.
“No time to talk,” Vallan grumbles, and I believe he has more than me in mind when he says it. He’s staring right at the dhampir tower guard.
“Vall!” I yell, and clench my hands on the edge of the bench.
“Brace yourselves!” Vallan bellows.
I screw my eyes shut at the last second, the horses letting out a shrill cry. Metal squeals, jarring like a spear into my brain, as the horses lower their heads and smash into the gate. It rips open, sending the dhampir guard yelping as he rolls aside before he can get stampeded.
It’s a momentary slowdown, and I worry if it’ll have repercussions. Those consequences can wait. Our mission cannot.
It’s still early in the night, which means the streets of Nuhav are quite busy. With the recent riots and goings-on, the roads are doubly packed with bodies.
With our hoods pulled low, we look like three reapers come to exact a toll on humanity, riding atop blackened a carriage of death with blackened steeds.
Citizens yell and shout as they hurry out of the way so they won’t be crushed, Vallan slowing down for no one.
He’s taking this mission just as seriously as I hoped he would! “Move! Get out of the way!” I yell at every blurring body in the road.
We’re quickly through the northern section—the nicer part of town—nearing the throng of rioters that have been rebelling against the Bronzes for weeks now.
“If the swell of people gets too much, we use our feet,” Vallan announces. He’s hyper-focused on his task, shoulders squared, body bent forward to lead the horses.
I nod wordlessly, trying to breathe past a drying throat. The wind stings as it sweeps across my face, biting into my flesh. My eyes burn, and it’s all I can do to keep them open.
We make it to the southern district and the Firehold entrance within two hours of failing to portal through Skar’s shadows. My heart hasn’t stopped hammering since I learned Jinneth’s and Old Endolf’s safety—and their concoction—has been compromised.
On the way here, we streamed past a few groups of Bronzes, their brassy armor glinting in the moonlight as they blurred by. No one tried to stop us—no one had time to try—but I know they won’t be far behind after this ruckus we’ve caused.
As Vallan finally brings the panting horses to a halt, our trio catapults off the bench as one and we draw our weapons.
My swords come out in a blur. Garroway is opting for daggers.
Vallan brings out his axe, and with another hand reaches into his tunic.
He produces a small clay pot, and I’m well-versed in what it is by now.
That’s what he must have run off to retrieve in the conference room, I think idly.
Vall hands the pot to Garro, which causes the dhampir to reel.
“Erm, what am I supposed to do with this, brother? This is your forte.”
Vallan grunts. “Blow shit up, cub. If it comes to it. You’ve seen how to do it.”
“He has done it,” I say, remembering how we escaped this very place months ago while vampire assassins came after us. It was one of Vall’s explosives that saved us and allowed us to escape.
If things get dire—if, Truehearts forbid, we’re too late—use the damned explosive as cover for us to get away.
We won’t be running though, I tell myself. Not without my mother. No matter what awaits us.
The street is empty when we turn the corner to reach the Firehold entrance. It’s a simple grate, hardly noticeable unless you’re looking for it. We run over divots in the ground and I slow my roll when I notice tendrils of smoke rising up through the holes.
“What is it, silverblood?” Vallan asks.
I point at the ground with my swords, at the white smoke that looks like heavy mist. “Lukain once told me these holes signify a match going on below, in the main fighting room of the Firehold. There’s a bonfire lit during a match that sends up a smoke signal onto the surface.”
“So?”
A dull thud brews behind my eyes. “Antones ended the matches. There are no more bouts in the Firehold . . .”
“So why is there smoke rising through the ground?” Garroway finishes for me.
With panic rising in my chest, I give my men a look—
Freezing at the blur of blackness directly over Vallan’s shoulder.
“Vall!” I scream.
He wheels around with his enormous axe, swinging in a wide arc, not bothering to ask what’s behind him.
A sinewy figure ducks under the arc, rushing the monolithic vampire and shoving a blade into his side.
Vallan grunts—this one sounds pained, yet he remains undeterred as usual. He stares down at the pale face of the vampire holding the sword. Before the attacker can pull his blade from Vallan’s side, my mate grabs the fucker by his thin throat.
Vallan lifts the vampire off the ground, legs kicking, and bellows monstrously in his face.
The vampire assassin drops his blade to clutch at his neck, a gurgle spilling past his lips.
Vallan brings his other arm across, wielding his axe like it weighs nothing, though the damned thing is as tall as I am, and I’m not a short woman.
He lets go of the vampire’s neck at the last second—
Just as the curved blade arcs, displaces air, and strikes home, ripping through flesh and bone like butter and bread.
The assassin’s body falls to the ground, while his head remains in Vallan’s grip, spilling a fountain of gore onto the dismembered corpse.
Vallan tosses the head with a disgusting squelch when it lands. “Anyone else?” he challenges.
More shadows crowd the empty street. They come from all sides of the road, seeping in from the alleys and shadowy nooks. Somehow, someone has gotten here faster than us. And they’re all wearing gray cloaks.
Alacine’s spy-soldiers.
I grit my teeth and go back-to-back with Garroway, who crouches low.
“Someone’s been waiting for us,” the dhampir says casually, almost gleefully. “Perhaps they’re still smarting from that ambush we gave them and want to return the favor.”
“Don’t act so happy about it, cub,” I spit through clenched teeth.
There are at least five vampires. I have to hope they’re a vanguard unit—that there aren’t more of them down in the Firehold, wreaking havoc on the Grimsons.
“We have to get below,” I tell my mates, “at all costs. Preferably quickly.”
Vallan lets out a sound of acknowledgment.
Garroway taps his daggers together, rasping the steel blades in a grating way. He bumps his ass against mine. “Then are you ready to dance, little honey badger?”