CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VESPER
Vesper’s head swam as he sank back into his body, though pain chomped away at him like a sharp-toothed prick.
He couldn’t quite recall the last thing that had happened as he sifted through his memory.
He slivered an eyelid, and light assaulted his eyes like a splash of salt water.
He blinked against the moisture gathered in the corners.
That's when he realized why his limbs were so stiff.
He was bound to something. It was hard and cold and, oh fuck.
He was strapped to a bloody table like some sacrifice to the gods or a hogtied animal ready to be roasted over a spit.
Rope bound his hands together beneath it, his feet tied to the table legs.
He tugged at the rough coarse threads, but between his numb fingers and the expert knots, he couldn’t move.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
He still wore his leather trousers, but his knives and weapons were gone.
His father's sword too. Even if by some miracle he got his arm free, he had nothing to cut himself loose with. Gnawing through the bindings like some pathetic rat wasn’t an option either since he couldn’t reach them.
And the restraints twisted his arms in the most unsavoury way.
This was—shit. This was bad. So, so bad.
And his tunic was unbuttoned. His scars revealed.
He couldn’t quite decipher why but that meant whoever had done it saw his Shadowheart.
While there were mixed opinions toward the marks, the prevailing attitude was undeniably negative.
It’s not like he had chosen it but he couldn’t exactly wash it off.
He tried to call Kaida from within his mark, to get him out of this mess, but, oh gods, someone put restraints on him, too.
His magic was far away, probably enjoying a fucking picnic on its time off while he was in danger.
Fear stirred in his chest. He tried to lift his head but didn’t get far before his bindings strained and pain shot through his limbs. He let his head thump back against the hard surface. His forehead wouldn't stop throbbing.
A wave of pain and nausea overwhelmed him so badly he squeezed his eyes closed to try and curb it. As he did, the memory bled back.
That bloody prick of a shopkeeper.
The woman in the turquoise cloak.
The tunnel. That long ass ladder. The darkness.
Her fucking strangling him. Banging his head against the wall.
And that’s when he realized the lantern that hung above him was the same one he had found in the dark cave. Apparently, a trap he’d waltzed into.
Oh gods, where did Nef go? She had been waiting at the top. Did she go back to the inn or—
Vesper's eyes flew open again.
His head swivelled as he took in the wood walls, flooring, and furniture all in the same honeyed hue.
The scent of woodsmoke hung in the air. His brows drew together as he studied the pictures tacked to the wall, some abstract, scenery, or the silhouette of men.
A mix of charcoal, watercolour, and ink.
His attention snagged on a detailed set of wings captured mid-flight. It put his silly sketches to shame.
To one side of him, there were hooks on the walls, two chairs for the table he was strapped to shoved into a corner, a window with dark blue curtains drawn, and a wooden partition that separated the main room from a kitchen.
The front door lay on the far side of the room, out of reach.
Even when he rocked his weight, the table legs screeched a pathetic sound but barely moved.
He tilted his head back to find a simple bed behind him with a beige quilt. And in that bed was—
Nef. She was asleep, her pale cheek nestled in her palm. Vesper opened his mouth to say her name, call her, warn her to run, but footsteps from the direction of the partition startled him.
A strip of cold steel kissed his throat. The unmistakable press of a blade.
His eyes slid to meet a mismatched gaze—one eye an icy silver and the other a devastating cerulean. A turquoise vestige swathed her. Deep burgundy hair fell over her shoulder in a waterfall.
He knew that hair. That vestige.
And as the scent of blackberries swept over him, he was certain. He was also certain he was beginning to hate that smell.
The woman Nef had followed smiled down at him as she held a knife to his jugular. The blade scraped against Vesper's throat as he swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but she sank the metal a hair's breadth deeper into his flesh. He clamped his lips closed.
She held the knife much too casually. Too practiced.
“I get to speak first” she said, her voice like a song. “Who in the name of the goddess do you think you are?”
Vesper’s eyes widened and his mind raced. It was a simple question. A snarky one, but it was still a simple question with a simple answer.
The blade bit into his throat, wet warmth swelled, and yet, he couldn’t find his voice.
Didn’t know how to react. How to get out of this situation.
Could he spill his plan? That seemed idiotic to reveal all that to a stranger.
But maybe she knew Kyrith. Or maybe she was, but then why was she attempting to murder him? And with such joy?
“I asked you a question,” she hissed. “Are you some sort of moron?”
Vesper attempted to shake his head without her opening his throat like a tin can. But at the moment, he couldn’t form a fucking coherent thought.
“I'll ask one more time, then,” she said, her voice low, full of the promise of violence. “Who are you?” She drew out the words slowly, like it would help him catch them. How bloody gracious of her.
He summoned his courage. “What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t do anything.” The woman’s brows drew together. “And I suggest you answer my question. Now.”
“Why is she in a bed and I’m tied to a godsdamn table!”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Because I’m not worried about her.”
“And you’re worried about me? What the fuck do you think I’m going to do? Flip this table on you? Strike you with my magic? Oh, wait. I can’t.” Vesper wiggled his fingers beneath the table, then through bared teeth, he hissed, “And who the fuck are you?”
The woman smiled as the blade bit into his neck. “You first, dumbass.”
He retreated like a pup with his tail between his legs. “Alright, alright, listen, there’s been some misunderstanding,” Vesper rasped. He flashed her a tight grin he hoped would smooth things over. “I don’t mean any harm.”
“Bullshit,” she spat.
“You were the one who attacked me.”
“For good reason!” Her eyes narrowed on him. “What do you want, huh? Are you looking for a service? Because we don’t do that anymore.”
He blinked up at her. Blinked again. What the fuck did that mean?
“You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you?” A tiny laugh sputtered out of her. “Struck speechless so easily.”
Vesper wanted to scream. The muscles strained in his neck as he spat incredulously, “I’m tied up and you’re holding a bloody blade to my throat!
Why do you think I’m confused?” He was panting by the time he calmed himself enough to say, “Now, if you would kindly remove your blade, we can talk like civilized people.”
“First of all—” Her eyes wandered down his face, neck, and traced his exposed scars. “You’re not a civilized anything. Look at all your scars. You’re so godsdamn special, aren’t you? Did you paint that Shadowheart on your chest? Because last I checked Shadowhearts are extinct.”
“Is that why my shirt was ripped open? Gods, at least buy a man dinner first.” By her responding sneer, she did not like that answer. And she glowered down at him like she wanted to dice his throat like a root vegetable.
“If the blade at your throat isn’t frightening enough, I’ll start cutting other parts of you. More convincing parts.” She moved the blade from his neck and placed it between his thighs. The tip rested just shy of his crotch. Vesper sucked air through his teeth.
“Was jamming your knee into my groin not enough?” he snarled. But all the blood drained from his face as she lifted the blade higher to graze the inside of his thigh. Because he didn’t doubt for a second she would sever something essential and let him bleed out in the same place she ate dinner.
“Okay, okay, fine. Fine,” he blurted and licked his dry lips. “I—I don’t know why I have one. The gods bloody love me, I guess. Though you wouldn’t fucking know it. I’ve always had a Shadowheart. My—my sister did, too. It’s not painted. I swear on the gods. I’m not that talented."
The woman narrowed her eyes on Vesper, and he noticed the pupil in her silver eye didn’t constrict as the other did. “Why was your girl following me?”
“I—” She lifted the blade a hair’s breadth and grazed the inside of his thigh. “Fuck, fuck, stop moving the knife! I’m answering your questions!”
“It’s too fun not to.” She grinned, basking in his suffering. “Continue.”
Vesper clenched his jaw and glowered up at her. “She noticed you didn’t have the bloodlace when you walked into that shop. She saw you go into the hatch. And from what you said you were trying to lure me there? What the fuck? Why would you—”
“Because you were asking around for Kyrith!” She lifted the blade back to his throat. “Why were you giving people her name and where are you from? You certainly don’t have a northern accent.”
Vesper swallowed against the blade. His world tilted. Because this could either be one of Zyphira’s fucked up plans or he was exactly where he needed to be. And he had absolutely no idea what to think. Maybe he had taken a wrong turn and wasn’t supposed to end up here.
The woman’s gaze traced the carve of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, then the set of his mouth. Something warred in her expression, and the tension between them cinched like a corset.
He didn’t know her. Didn’t know her intentions. So, he decided to play it safe and keep his identity and title hidden. Gods forbid she try to use him for ransom or some other nonsense, but the joke was on her, no one would pay for his return. “I’m, uhm, from the southern valley. My name is Vesper.”
She repeated his name slowly as if feeling it on her breath.
Then her free hand slid to her hip where it rested on a peculiar silver blade.
Topaz gems embedded the hilt of the stunning shortsword, and the scabbard was expensive leather, the kind one sold their family jewels to attain.
And when her fingers touched the hilt, it emitted a strange high pitched sound, not ear piercing, but like a song. And it sounded like—
No. That was impossible.
But then her expression fell, and with it, her grip on the knife faltered. For a stupidly long moment, they both just sort of gaped at each other like idiots.
Out of the corner of Vesper’s eye, he caught something scurrying along the floor. He bit back a small yelp as a black mass, the size of a newborn wolf pup emerged. The peculiar creature with onyx scales and gold accents looked like a giant lizard. But as it drew closer, Vesper got a better look.
No. It was a dragon. A tiny one.
Its face scrunched and it exhaled a plume of smoke.
Its curious amber eyes flicked from the woman to Vesper right before it leapt onto him like a cougar.
His immediate instinct was to shove the creature away but with his tied limbs left him helpless.
So he braced himself for a proper mauling.
Since he was a boy, animals had always loathed him for no particular reason.
He prepared for it to sink its pointed teeth into his flesh.
But the dragon climbed all over his abdomen, took a hearty inhale of his Shadowheart, then stretched out on his chest and butted its nose against his. Vesper stared at it, not daring to breathe and—
Then it purred.
The woman stared, utterly appalled and entirely shocked. “Stiggy, down, girl,” she said, a little strained.
“She’s kind of sweet,” he murmured, afraid to move. His gaze flicked back to the woman. “She’s, uhm, not going to eat me, is she?”
“No,” the woman grumbled. “She’s on a strict diet and it doesn’t include loud-mouthed, skinny assholes.”
He bit back a response that would only get him in more trouble.
She set down the blade and hauled the tiny dragon off Vesper. Once she placed the creature down, it scrambled behind the privacy partition in the room. Then they both stared at each other and something foreign passed between them—a flicker of fate or promise or fuck he didn’t know.
Vesper’s brows pulled together. “You’re going to think I’m insane, but I was looking for this woman for a few reasons. One of them being this prophecy. You’ve surely heard of it.”
“That poetic crap about the world ending? Yes, I’ve heard it.” The woman’s lip curled. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. We don’t need you coming in here and upending things. We’ve all been dropping like flies because of the bloodlace. The fever is the least of our worries.”
He stared at her, not sure what to say. He obviously knew the bloodlace was bad, but the two combined were catastrophic.
And, like him, maybe she was lost and looking for a light at the end of the tunnel.
And if there was anything that could help, he would take it.
He wasn’t sure what Zyphira meant by his past, present, and future waited, but maybe answers to all these problems could be found here.
“What if—” He cleared his throat. “What if I said I had a solution to all your problems? That I’ve been sent to this woman with purpose. That I’m supposed to find others with the burden of mimicry. Like me.”
Her eyes widened but she let him continue.
“And what if I said I’ll find a way to rid this bloodlace if you give me a chance? That an Oracle sent me here—”
“The Oracles have been gone for a hundred years.” She reached for her blade and slid it into her belt, then rolled her eyes and said, “And I would tell you that you’re out of your mind.”
But a questioning look bled between them.
Vesper took his best guess, took a chance, because something had led him here and now and this felt like fate. “You’re her, aren’t you?”
She clenched her jaw and looked away.
But her name punched out of him in a breathless plea of both hope and surrender. “Kyrith?”