Chapter 61
G arrik moved only to determine if the guards who patrolled overnight had forgotten to administer the next dose of poison. The sounds of the arena in the cold of the night had lessened. Before Ladomyr and Erissa had slithered to their bedchambers and left him hanging there, the last of the screams had echoed from an ash tree.
“Wake up, boy. You’re going to miss the finale.”
Garrik groaned as that hand gripping his hair slammed his head into the stake.
At least it was not spiked with nails like Brennus’s sessions. Tearing into his back, paralyzing him not by drugs but by his spine being too shattered to function.
Although the crown of glass Erissa shoved on his head mirrored that pain. And as the blood trailed down his forehead, nose, into his mouth, the sound he made was mostly choked off when the darkened silhouette tightened a fist around his neck.
Garrik gasped for breath; his heart skipped a beat as his brutally numb fingers shackled above twitched. Something he had not been able to do since suffering the effects of the poison two days ago.
So, the guards did forget. Either that or they got the dose wrong, having not learned their mistake from the Cullings when he could last move and speak.
The king opened his mouth, surely to gloat, but Erissa cut him off with a vicious laugh. “Father, you’re missing the pathetic little wretch. Look how scared she is.” The princess cawed another laugh.
Garrik felt it slithering down his body like her touch did every time she had circled the stake.
Ladomyr turned to Erissa and devilishly grinned.
That hand at Garrik’s neck withdrew.
A terror Garrik had never known crept over him as the sound of whirring and flying things pierced the air. He could do nothing more than hang there, bound and lifeless against that pillar, forced to watch as Kadamar’s elite was unleashed on his mate.
Alora evaded the first release of arrows. Twirled and tumbled in the air just as he had when they had made love in Airatheldra’s skies. She remembered. He was damn proud of her for it. But when the Made wings of High Guardsmen—some wooden, others of leaves and iron—forced them into the sky, she looked behind.
He wanted to shout to her. Tell her to keep going. To get away.
To not look at him and Jade as if considering who she would save.
She would risk everything for him. And he for her.
But it only took that small moment.
An arrow flew.
From the balcony, the scent of her blood seeped around him as it sank into her arm. Her starfire dwindled by half, and Garrik knew it was laced with poison. Near feet from shattering through the glass dome, Alora’s cry was like a vise to his chest. But the pain on her face was much more than what the arrow rendered her. That was truth settling in. Shame. Frustration. Forcing her to half-yield before her grip began to falter, almost dropping Jade.
But his mate was stronger than anyone knew—than she knew—and bared her teeth, refusing to allow Jade to fall.
That glass was the only thing keeping her contained, caged like Ladomyr’s beasts. Until Ladomyr’s hand swayed through the air and pointed a damning finger.
And rising before her, twisting and cracking and morphing, the dome turned into a weapon. A sky of sharpened crystal blades.
Faeries were screaming, toppling down the staircases. Fleeing.
Ladomyr tightened his fist as he claimed the railing of the balcony. The dome shards advanced. Driving his mate back and into the hands of hovering soldiers.
A warm hand gripped Garrik’s chin, forcing his hollow eyes to stare at the wings. At the starfire and weapons. The hands ripping Jade from Alora’s arms and forcing hers behind her as her powers diminished entirely.
All the fury Garrik could garner flared in his eyes the moment Alora was slammed onto the balcony on her knees. In his piss and blood that had been dripping down the wooden pillar. Pooling from his head and that damned knife in his shoulder. Over the snot and spit from when Ladomyr’s guards struck him overnight.
Alora bared her teeth, her blood mixed with his as Erissa fisted Garrik’s hair and forced him to look down on his wife.
Had he even a grains-worth of power, the entire span of Kadamar would be leveled. But every last kernel of his magic was fortified behind a wall of shimmering green ink. Unable to break into the ironclad fortress in his mind and unleash it from the depths.
He opened his mouth to scream, to curse, to promise to rip the very bones from their bodies, but nothing came out. Gagged but not by cloth. By that drug coursing through his veins.
Fucking fight this, he lashed at himself. For Alora. For Jade. For Thalon. For?—
“Stars, Garrik.” He hated the sound of his name on Erissa’s tongue. “If only you weren’t such a fool, then maybe your mate wouldn’t be calling on Firekeeper right now.” She ran her lips along the sensitive flesh of his ear. Perhaps the princess had visited Galdheir, taking on a quality of serpents and speaking like one too.
“ Shut up ,” Alora snarled, gravelly and strained.
A guard shoved her on her face and crushed her bruised wrist beneath his boot just as a High Guardsman landed with Jade and threw her at his feet—unmoving.
Ladomyr’s mouth was piercingly cruel as he paced between them and spoke to Alora inches from his boots. “What a shame. Of all the decisions you could have made, you choose to die.” Scraping his boot along the blood pool, Ladomyr splashed her face.
Alora only smiled, wearing Garrik’s blood like war paint in streaks from her hair to her chin. “No.” She raised a defiant chin. “I choose to fight.”
Pride swelled in him as much as caution. Careful, clever girl, he whispered down that broken, empty tether.
Ladomyr Scoffed. “We will see how much fight is left in you. Take her to my chambers.” And flicked his hand as if he were swatting an insect. Then snickered to Garrik, “I have a promise to keep.”
Beneath the pounding in his head, a warm voice spoke. It was an effort to focus on it. To recognize it. To understand the words his mind slurred and obstructed, turning them to mush. But those words continued to flow like a serene stream. Soothing and calm. Slow and precise until Garrik could determine them.
Breathe, that warm voice spoke again. A pressure cupped his forehead.
“Fuck,” Garrik groaned, barely able to rotate his head in the bloody dirt. One eye opened, the other swollen shut. Golden eyes stared back, separated by iron bars as a dark palm brushed hair from his temple. “What an unpleasant sight to wake to.”
Thalon’s laugh was warm as sunlight. A delighted sigh caressed them. “You should see yourself. Positively revolting.”
Garrik barked a laugh and instantly regretted it. He could not determine which was worse; his face or his abdomen. Though his dying heart squeezing and skipping was a close third.
“So.” Inked hands drifted further through the bars and carefully brushed along Garrik’s ribs, inspecting, mindful of every wince. “Your meeting with Ladomyr went well?”
This time, Garrik’s laugh was softer. “Fucking delightful. Though I do not recommend the bourbon,” he slurred as Thalon smirked. Then he tried to contain the grunt when tattooed fingers met his knee. Broken—surely that was broken. The rest of him in pieces by the feel of it. “How bad?”
“Terrible news, I’m afraid.” Thalon’s face gave nothing away as he continued, “Unfortunately, you’ll live.”
Coughing a laugh, he barely heard Thalon’s apology. His fingers twitched in the dirt, attempting to curl in on himself and clench his cracked ribs. “Make me laugh again and I will tie you behind Ghost to collect her shit for a week.”
Thalon blinked. “That’s … a new one.”
Starsdamnit. Garrik laughed again. “Make that two .” There was little threat there. He may not admit it verbally, but Garrik was grateful for the distraction. For the laughing, the worrisome touches, the— “Talking,” Garrik realized, rasping. “I’m talking.”
“I’m as shocked as you. You hardly ever talk,” Thalon taunted, running his fingers along Garrik’s shoulder, inspecting the wound—missing the blade. When Garrik only glared at him, Thalon dropped his baiting grin and solemnly explained, “After they beat you, the guards only nulled your powers. They didn’t think you needed the other to keep you immobilized and unspeaking.” He frowned, stretching the ripped fabric over the knife wound and pressing it tight.
Garrik swallowed blood, hardly remembering a beating—glad for the loss of memory. “They were right.” It would not matter if they used it again, Garrik could not move.
His Guardian was thorough, despite being restricted behind the bars. Thalon managed with great resistance from his shoulder and chest, only allowing him to reach so far, to lightly poke and examine every broken bone, gash, and wound.
When it was finished, the cold rim of a dented metal cup pressed his lips. Garrik swallowed down stale water, eyes closed, drinking in the too-short comfort to his throat, then asked, “Your magic?”
Thalon frowned. “The guards were skeptical of my tattoos. Drugged me as a precaution.” When Garrik swallowed the last of the water, he asked, “Are you able to give me your hand?”
“I am a mated male. Don’t think Alora is interested in sharing.”
Shaking his head until his cheeks swelled, Thalon motioned to the hand he could not reach.
Garrik was not certain he could. The slow twitch of a finger was answer enough. But his hand was not seriously injured. A flick of his eyes meant that only a few scratches and dried blood covered it. Unless Thalon meant his raw wrists, the skin flayed and festering. But he had experienced shackle wounds too many times to care. The scars would return by morning. It was little to be troubled about.
“Camp,” Thalon interrupted, face bleak.
Garrik did not need to turn to his Guardian to know he was already looking.
His rings. The shield.
Staring at the stones overhead, Garrik assured him, “The shield remains.”
Those golden eyes glazed with confusion. “You were able to twist it in the dining room?”
“After,” he corrected. “During the?—”
An iron door groaned and opened up the staircase.
Neither of them trembled as the flicker of torchlight strengthened, beaming long shadows along the wall and down the steps. The sounds of their boots were unrushed. Languid. Lazy and carefree as metal scraped along the stones used to strike fear into awaiting prisoners. A sound that might have made lesser males quake, but to Garrik and Thalon it had little effect. Not because Garrik was so terribly injured that he was unable to, but the thought of a blade excited him. Of what he would do once that guard’s sword was in his hand.
All he needed was?—
The guard shrieked. Something crashed and sent him tumbling.
Three guardsmen in a mess of autumn armor and snapping bones rolled until they sagged in a pile below the staircase.
Thalon furrowed his brows and clutched the metal bars, refusing to move from Garrik as another shadow drifted across the wall and down the steps.
Folded buckle boots tapped into view before he did. That pleasantly cheerful voice too. “Anyone in need of a dashingly daring rescue?”
A guard groaned, Aiden lifted his foot, pushed him over, and then polished the leather on the male’s shoulder.
“ Aiden !” Thalon was on his feet, moving to the door of his cell. “Where the hell have you been?”
Their sea captain was admiring his theatrics and threw a sly grin their way. “Well, I was at the masquerade.” Aiden smiled dumbly. “Then I wasn’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he turned, then adjusted his belt.
Thalon rolled his eyes.
“Two lovely ladies wanted to show me the High City.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. The High City ,” Thalon repeated and tested the door again, glaring at Aiden expectantly.
Aiden’s answering smile was serpentine as he dragged a finger over the spindles of the cells beside Thalon’s. “I returned the next morning to find the castle damn near buzzing about your capture. Took me two bloody days to find a way inside.”
Thalon rattled the door again. “How?”
“If I wouldn’t have gone and searched the tunnels with you… Took me a wee bit to navigate. But I popped out and followed guardsmen to the dungeons. Did you know Ladomyr has eight? Eight dungeons. What a bloody?—”
“ Aiden ,” Thalon scolded with urgency and raised a brow, shaking the door again .
Those shale eyes filled with realization. Aiden straightened. “Right. Shall we then?” And rifled through the piled guardsmen, producing a ring of keys from the mess.
Thalon nodded a gesture toward Garrik. “Attend him first.”
Garrik did not so much as move, listening to the scuff of dirt under Aiden’s approach.
“You’ll have to help carry him.”
The sound of a key slipped through the lock and turned as Aiden retorted, “Damn beastie can walk.”
“He can’t even stand,” Thalon informed.
Aiden slipped his hand in his captain’s frock and produced a small pearlescent vial, jiggling it. “Aye, but he will.” And waggled his eyebrows before he burst open the door and slid to his knees beside Garrik. “Won’t return the magic but will pretty that gorgeous face.” For a male who lived for suspense, Aiden held none and touched the vial to Garrik’s lips, effectively pouring the serum down his throat. “Should make you feel better real soon, brother. Swallow for me.”
Garrik leveled a glare, and Aiden’s face scarleted.
But Garrik obeyed him anyway. Over and over until it was empty.
Less than a minute and every wound had healed.
Aiden pulled Garrik to his feet, embracing each other’s forearms before his sea captain unlocked Thalon’s cell and his Guardian stormed outside with something like unquenchable wrath and holy fire in his eyes.
No one said a word as Garrik stalked toward the guard’s weapons and those knives he was so thoroughly acquainted with. One smelled of his blood. The ilk had not bothered to clean it. Most likely intended to use it on him again.
Not five feet from claiming that knife and sinking it into their skulls, a flash of gold caught Garrik’s attention.
In the darkness of the cell beside Thalon’s …
He stopped.
“Did the guards only bring me down here?” Garrik asked Thalon, turning toward the door that had not been locked. As if there was no threat inside. As if the darkened form hanging in the corner held little threat of escaping.
Thalon furrowed his brows and answered, “I was too busy screaming at them to stop kicking you to notice if they did.”
The metal hinges screeched. Garrik stepped toward the darkness. Toward the blood pooled beneath. Toward the gold shimmering against the torchlight.
“Zander,” he breathed, warring off a tightness in his chest. Refusing to believe …
No breaths. The princeling’s lungs were not expanding as he hung by his wrists like Garrik had. That sun-kissed skin was bleak. Cold to the touch when Garrik lifted his chin from his chest.
An ache—a terrible, crushing ache—held Garrik’s heart so viciously it skipped a beat.
“Get him down…” his voice cracked; the strong planes of his face went taut. “Get him down.” Not realizing he said it again until Thalon cupped his shoulder.
Chains rattled. Garrik hardly stomached it as Thalon hugged the princeling’s waist, lifting him enough that the chains slackened. Aiden made it four keys before finding the one that unlocked Zander’s shackles.
Then Zander was on the dirt. On his back, limp and lifeless.
Garrik felt a long-sealed part of him break.
He loosened a breath as liquid lined his eyes. Clenched his painful, skipping heart as his chest tightened. Swallowed the emotion rising in his throat as he knelt beside him and draped Zander’s hands over his heart.
Thalon and Aiden knelt too.
Garrik barely registered Thalon’s prayer. Barely recognized his voice and stood in a daze, determined to grab the torch, and set the princeling ablaze so his soul could ride the smoke of the dungeon pyre to the Stars Eternal.
Then a voice, small and frail, stopped him cold.
“I thought you didn’t care, High Prince.”
Garrik stumbled, wrapping his fingers around a bar to steady him because his knees almost gave out. “You offend me by suggesting I do,” he answered, turning to find a weak smirk twitching the corners of Zander’s mouth.
But it swiftly fell and before anything more slurred from his lips, Garrik was at his side among the blood-muddied dirt. “I tried to save her.” Ezander’s lips trembled.
Alora.
Taking the princeling’s hand, Garrik squeezed it on his chest. “You did, brother.”
Something gleamed in those russet eyes. Zander winced. “Father punished me for it.”
“Here I thought you pleasured in being beaten and hanging in chains.” His warm hands brushed through golden waves. “Welcome to the guild of shit fathers.”
Ezander barked a painful laugh, then winced. “The Hunt. Did she? Is she?”
Garrik understood his broken question and had to squeeze his eyes tight to refuse the reminder of her screams before answering, “She lives.” And waited until Ezander deepened a relieved breath to say, “Come, princeling. Let’s get you out of here and find my mate.”
The weak smile of Kadamar’s beloved prince widened slightly.“Starsdamn. Save my heart only to break it. Here I thought she’d be my?—”
He did not require his powers to know what Zander thought. Garrik growled, “Finish that sentence and I will happily leave your ass here.”
Ezander did not say another word.
There was only the thought of Alora and Jade, the hallways and bodies, and that sword gleaming in his hand.
Blood painted the ornate wood of the ancient hallway. Every faelight that had flickered over millennia of rulers and offered warmth to the royal families that dwelt there for generations passed, dimmed as the demon of Elysian and his reapers prowled forward.
Garrik had not laid one blow to any of the royals and guardsmen littering that hallway.
Not Aiden, half-carrying Zander. Not Thalon by his side.
This was a massacre. A damned battlefield.
As if some outside force had sieged the castle and laid ruin to anything standing in their path.
Garrik had expected an uproar of alarm over their escape. Not … this.
Serpent darkness swirled in his eyes as something whispered a warning along the back of his neck. It was only a shame the drugs used to immobilize him did not cast her away, too. Regardless, Garrik weathered it, his eyesight turning to shades of gray as he scanned every blood-soaked body and face, prepared for any one of them—all of them—to be executing a ruse.
Leather groaned in his palm as he tightened it. Holding it in front, he stepped over them like piles of filth, and commanded, “Keep alert.”
His brothers nodded.
The silver sword in Thalon’s palm appeared out of place, having lost his familial sword days ago. And Aiden struggled beside him to hold Zander upright, one arm banded around his waist while the other held the princeling’s arm around his neck.
Garrik halted them when quiet footsteps echoed around a corner. Barely noticeable, like a wolf slowly prowling the stones. The sound was broken. As if it were stumbling along, wounded. Garrik did not doubt it was some soldier suffering down the hallway. Did not doubt whoever it was could be felled so easily he would not need any effort to do so.
They rounded that corner?—
“ Bloody hells ,” Aiden cursed and shoved Zander to Thalon. He shot forward, bounding over the bodies to a soldier.
A Dragon. Standing in the wake of destruction, proud and breathless in a shredded gown, like the fucking empress she was.
A sword clanged to the antique stones faster than she did. But she did not have a chance to fall.
Aiden’s arms cradled Jade, pulling her into his lap to rest her head on his chest.
“Why is every male in this starsdamned kingdom so fucking stupid?” Jade murmured.
He brushed a calloused thumb on her bloody cheek, caressing her face as he chuckled. “Hello, love.” Shale eyes twinkled. “Got yourself into a fine mess, did you?”
Jade cracked a reptilian smile, and Garrik knew she hid a great deal of pain as she winced. “They thought they could take me.”
“Daft fools.” Aiden shook his head. His grin reached his eyes.
When Jade looked at Thalon, there was pride in those golden eyes, too. Then to silver. Garrik’s held a manifestation of the same. Surrounded by bodies. By the elite of Kadamar slain by their broken and bruised and powerful female at their feet. Their hurricane in a thunderstorm. A force undefeated.
Behind them, the groan of a royal drew Garrik’s attention. As Aiden cradled Jade, her eyes closed, yielding to the exhaustion and adrenaline, Garrik ripped the royal from the floor and blood and held him by his throat.
Like cold death, that voice of nightmares demanded, “ Where is my wife ?”