To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  Copyright © 2021 by Sarah A. Parker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For those who are afraid to bloom.

  Contents

  Glossary

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Thank You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Stony Stem — Orlaith’s tower.

  Bitten Bay — The bay at the bottom of the cliff below Castle Noir.

  Safety Line — The line Orlaith hasn’t stepped over since she came to Castle Noir when she was a child. It surrounds the estate—running the forest boundary and cutting through the bay.

  The Tangle — The unutilized labyrinth of corridors in the center of the castle that Orlaith uses to travel around in a more efficient manner. These corridors are typically without windows.

  Sprouts — The greenhouse.

  Dark zones — Places Orlaith has yet to explore.

  The Den — Rhordyn’s personal chambers.

  The Keep — The big polished doors guarded by Jasken. One of Orlaith’s dark zones.

  The Plank — The tree that has fallen across the selkie pond and is often used for Orlaith’s training.

  Spines — The giant library.

  The Safe — The small door where Orlaith places her offering every night.

  Whispers — The dark, abandoned passageway Orlaith has turned into a mural.

  The Grave — The storage room where Orlaith discovered Te Bruk o' Avalanste.

  Puddles — The communal bathing chambers/thermal springs.

  Hell Hole — The room where Baze often trains Orlaith.

  Caspun — A rare bulb Orlaith relies on to calm her attacks brought on by her nightmares and sharp sounds.

  Exothryl/exo — The contraband drug Orlaith takes in the morning to counteract the effects of overdosing on caspun every night to ensure a good sleep.

  Conclave — A meeting that consists of all the Masters and Mistresses from across the continent.

  Tribunal — The monthly gathering where citizens get to voice their woes with their High/Low Master.

  Fryst — Northern Territory.

  Rouste — Eastern Territory.

  Bahari — Southern Territory.

  Ocruth — Western Territory.

  The full-bellied moon casts a silver sheen across Vateshram Forest, the shadows stark against their illuminated backdrop.

  My horse gallops around the deeper pockets of black, weaving a path between ancient trees, breaths labored, ears pinned back. Every now and again, he tosses his head in defiance.

  I steal a look behind, making sure I’m not being followed.

  Seven years ago. That’s the last time I dared to make this trip.

  I held off for as long as I could.

  Wind whistles through the trees, an icy, Northern-borne breeze that carries a sharp scent and makes my hands tighten around the reins. Everything from the North comes with a taint these days: the wind, the food pulled off trade ships that have traveled down the River Norse, even the water that spills off its mountain border and fills our streams.

  Eyzar slows, then stops of his own accord, snorting and pawing the ground.

  “Steady, boy,” I soothe, running my hand along his thick, muscled neck.

  A deathly hush blankets the forest, and I cast my gaze around, listening, watching ...

  A gust of wind breaks the silence, wailing like an agonized beast, teasing an acrid stench past my nose.

  My brow buckles, breath catching.

  Death. Burning death—coming from the direction of the safe house.

  Aravyn.

  “Ya!” I growl, digging my heels in.

  Eyzar squeals, then charges forward, and every galloping thud lands with a dire echo in my head.

  Too late.

  Too late.

  Too late.

  “Faster!”

  The trees finally thin, revealing two jagged slopes framing the smoldering remains of a once-grand home.

  Eyzar rears to a stop, turning on his haunches. It’s all I can do to keep him from bolting back the way he came as I stare at the devastating scene while ash rains from the sky.

  Not fast enough ...

  A roaring inferno engulfs the house that’s lost all its shape, now nothing but crumbled stone walls, piles of charred rocks, and flaming wooden beams scattered across the ground like matchsticks. Shaded creatures are collecting in pockets of shadow, maneuvering toward lumps of fried flesh strewn throughout the clearing.

  Too many bodies for a fucking safe house.

  Someone screwed up. For their sake, I hope they’re already dead.

  Rabid howls preface a strange, sickening sound not unlike the squeal of metal on metal, and a low rumble scours the back of my throat.

  I leap off Eyzar, speaking to him in hushed tones as I tie him to a tree that’s lit by firelight. Approaching the ruin in slow strides, I grip the pommel poking over my shoulder, tugging my weapon free; a virulent black blade that blends with the gloom.

  The advancing shadows rear back.

  I step over a severed hand missing three fingers, the nub dribbling bold, red blood that shouldn’t bring me a sense of relief ... but does.

  It’s not part of her.

  Them.

  I keep going, passing limb after limb, head after head—the bubbled, blistering skin distorting features, but failing to hide the upside down v’s carved into some of their foreheads.

  What are the fucking Shulák doing here?

  The thought is discarded when my eye catches on a charred leg heaped against a boulder ...

  Blood roars in my ears, and a wild, thrashing anger threatens to shred the carefully laid fibers of my constraints.

  Not only is the torn flesh seeping an opalescent liquid I’m too familiar with, but the limb is small.

  Too small.

  I sit on my heels, close my eyes, bite down on my fist ...

  Too fucking small.

  That anger builds and builds and—

  The ground trembles, followed by another strident screech, the commotion spawning from behind the collapsed and burning dwelling.

  Murderous mutts.

  They’re still here. Still feasting.

  Again, that
keen, scraping sound dissects the air, followed by a feral howl that carves up the length of my spine like a blade.

  My upper lip peels back, and I shove to my feet, cracking my neck from side to side. I set off in the direction of the noise, but a gurgling whimper has my gaze darting to a willow tree; to the figure slumped at its base, her long, pale hair pooled beneath her head ...

  Aravyn.

  I rush to her side, landing on my knees, sword discarded on the ground. Carefully, I roll her toward me, heart dropping when my hands connect with the warm wetness of her half-spilled entrails.

  “Fuck.”

  She releases an agonized moan while I inspect the damage.

  The edges of her wounds have already begun to gray and fester, emitting a rancid, throat-clogging stench ...

  Too. Fucking. Late.

  Her frail hand settles atop the clear, heavy jewel she’s always worn around her neck. “T-take it,” she begs, looking at me with eyes wide and luminous, like crystals caught in the sunlight. So different from the others staring blankly from the ground out there.

  I swallow thickly, tuck her hair behind her thorny ear, and loosen the latch, catching the jewel. The silver chain falls into my palm, almost blending with the color of her treasured blood on my hands.

  “For h-her,” she whispers, folding my fingers over the gift.

  Folding my fucking heart just as much.

  Last time I came, her belly was round and full, and I don’t have it in me to tell her there’s a small, severed leg lying in the dirt nearby.

  A fatal injury.

  That Col—her partner—is probably out there, too.

  In pieces.

  A wet hack spills more of her onto the soil, and her hand lands on the hilt of my blade. “Please ...”

  “I have liquid bane in my saddle pac—”

  “No,” she gasps. “W-with your sword. Please.”

  I pause, feeling her request stack upon my shoulders like a brick.

  Giving her a terse nod that carves me up on the inside, I pocket the necklace and take the weight of the weapon, lowering its tip to the left side of her chest.

  I hold her stare, a million words trapped behind the clamp of my lips.

  Words won’t ease her pain or stop her flesh from rotting—won’t restart the night and bring her family back—so I hold them in, letting them scour my insides and fuel that pit of venomous rage waiting to unleash.

  “Prom-m-mise. S-save her, Rhordyn. P-please.”

  She’s already gone.

  “I promise,” I say, holding her gaze.

  The lie does its job, relieving the tightness from around her eyes, but the cost is a phantom skewer through my chest.

  I promised her a safe house, too ... and now her family’s dead.

  She offers a sad smile, and an iridescent tear paves a path through the filth and blistering flesh on her cheek. “D-do it.”

  “I’m sorry ...”

  For everything.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but I don’t give her a chance to feed me the lie I can see brewing in her eyes. I plant lethal pressure down the sword and draw a gasp from her split lips.

  Wide, glassy eyes darken with the shadow of death, taking on a depthless serenity I can’t look away from fast enough.

  She would have dished me placating words—told me it’s okay.

  It’s not okay.

  I hang my head and pretend the stars aren’t staring holes through my back.

  But they are.

  They always are. And they always fucking will.

  Letting my rage bubble to the surface, I pull the sword free and push to a stand.

  Smooth. Cold.

  Detached.

  Without a backward glance, I charge toward a billowy flame devouring the fallen remnants of the thatched roof, then round a mound of blackened bricks and pause in a slab of shadow ...

  Vruks. Three of them—eyes black bulbs, bodies much larger than my stallion and heaped with bulging pockets of muscle that shift beneath slick, gray fur.

  Neither canine nor feline, but somewhere trapped in the middle.

  Huge.

  Mighty.

  Merciless.

  A heinous fucking plague.

  Their stubby snouts are splashed red, an arsenal of fangs dripping their plunder. They’re prowling in a tight, snarling circle around a muddy dome—a perfect half-sphere dumped in the rubble.

  I tilt my head to the side, nostrils flaring.

  One of them rears up, long, lethal talons punching from his paws before he shifts his weight and slashes at the dome. Sparks burst and that shrill etching makes me want to gouge my ears.

  More ferocious snarls and howls score the air. The largest of the three dips his head, stamps his nose to the surface of the peculiar object, and roars.

  Chaotic, feral frustration ...

  And well distracted targets.

  I untether the remaining threads of my wrath and stalk forward on feet that barely seem to touch the ground, whipping my blade through the smoke. The first head slides off bulky shoulders, but I don’t wait for the beast to fall. I’ve already dropped and spun—the second Vruk yowling as I drag my sword through his stomach, releasing a spill of innards that steam the icy air.

  Quick, clean deaths.

  If only they’d given Aravyn the same consideration.

  I seize the alpha’s attention, his savage gaze charging into me. The air between us stiffens, and I lift my chin slightly.

  The mutt leaps forward, teeth bared and talons spread, a fetid roar staining the air. His head rolls before he has the chance to blink again; the thick, muscular neck yielding to the same metallic kiss that took his fated brethren.

  He drops like a boulder, liquid death squirting in rhythm with his failing heart as I release a sharp breath ...

  “Shit.”

  Killing has a taint, and I reek of it. Doubt I’ll ever be able to wash off the stench. But this world is not merciful, and neither am I.

  Not anymore.

  Weapon swiped on my coat, I resheathe it down my spine and shift my attention to the dome now greased in a layer of steaming Vruk gore. I crouch to study the strange object, sweeping a hand through the mess, revealing a crystal-like veneer that seems to shimmer with its own light source.

  But that’s not what turns my lungs to stone.

  Through the reflection of writhing flames and my pinched expression, I can see a child no older than two, clothed in mud and ash and scraps of burnt linen. Her eyes are squeezed shut, hands bracketing her ears as she rocks, face twisted in a silent scream.

  I spot her ear poking out through that mess of filthy, soot-stained curls, my eyes widening at the streak of fine, incandescent thorns lining the shell ...

  Aravyn had a second child.

  The weight in my pocket grows heavy, forcing my knees to the dirt.

  S-save her. P-please.

  I drag my hand down my face.

  Those words are just as hungry as my curiosity. This tiny Aeshlian ... she’s fossilizing her light, using it as a defense mechanism.

  An impossibility.

  Is she a crossbreed? Did Aravyn seek warmth in someone else’s bed?

  I scour the clearing of wide-eyed corpses for any witnesses. Only the shadows watch, collecting along the tree line that circles the devastation like a noose.

  Irilak. Hundreds of them. Some bigger than the Vruk I just slayed, others less than half that size.

  The scent of spilled blood must have drawn them in. It’s been a while since I’ve seen so many gather in one spot.

  I scan each writhing lump of black. Though I can’t see their faces, their combined attention bores into me, no doubt waiting for the flames to ease so they can dart forward and feast.

  They can’t have her.

  I sit on my heels, prepared to wait forever for her to drop the impenetrable barrier. I may not know this child, but it took years for her mother to agree to move into this safe house, and now she’s de
ad.

  This child deserves better.

  Her mother deserved better.

  I swallow my guilt and wait.

  Hours pass, and I avoid looking at the willow tree, hating that it’s the only tombstone Aravyn will have. That her body will be a feast for the wreath of hungry shadows just as soon as they get the opportunity to pounce.

  The sky is burnt from the rising sun by the time the child’s face smooths out, and her lashes sweep up.

  I go very, very still.

  Her wide eyes are aglitter with thousands of facets, as if she’s staring out from a sky full of stars that hatched in her soul.

  Her chin wobbles.

  Patches of that crystal dome begin to melt, dripping to the ground as the overwhelming scent of her anguish strikes the back of my throat like a blade.

  She doesn’t move—just continues to sit there, tucked in a ball, looking at me with destitute eyes.

  Studying me.

  The wind howls and her teeth chatter.

  I grind my molars.

  She’s going to fucking freeze if I don’t get her wrapped up soon, but I refuse to snatch her from the soil. I need her trust.

  Her permission.

  “I promise I won’t hurt you,” I say, keeping my bold voice low, fearful of scaring her back into that shell where I can’t help her.

  She blinks once ... twice ... then finally unravels, bits of mud and ash falling off her as she pushes to her feet and takes an unsteady step toward me, then buckles.

  I catch her before she hits the ground, and even through layers of leather and wool, I can feel how cold and fragile she is.

  I pull her close and stand. “I’ll keep you safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”