To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  Rhordyn shakes his head, a low growl caught in the back of his throat, a look akin to disgust splashed across his face. “I didn’t doom your kind. You did that yourselves.”

  A hiss rips out of me, lips peeled back to expose sharp incisors and even sharper canines—teeth threatening to lengthen and duplicate until my jaw is packed full of a deadly cavalry.

  “It’s only a matter of time before the wrath of The Shoaling Seas takes a bite out of you, and then what? That girl has lost everything, and you have the nerve to offer her something so temporary?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Or are you prepared to give up your beast for her?”

  Fury bubbles inside me with the force of a thousand waves.

  My muscles bulge, bones splintering under the pressure of keeping Zyke contained, jaw popping over and over. Even my skin begins to itch and sting, and I know that if I were to glance down at my legs, I’d see patches blooming with scales. I’d see frills sprouting from my ankles, maybe even my toes.

  Rhordyn clicks his tongue, looking me up and down. “I didn’t think so.”

  I crack my head from side to side. Bunch my hands into fists.

  “We are on the same side, Malikai. The side that’s no good for her.” He steps close, until I can see the smoky swirl of his unsettling eyes, like a storm cloud just swept over them. “So, next time I catch you kissing Orlaith, I’ll stick you through the heart. I don’t care if you’re the first or last of your kind, if you’re on two feet or none. Consider this your first and final warning.”

  It’s not the threat that catches me off guard, but the conviction in his tone. It’s his eyes that look more empty than full, despite his keen attention. A look I’ve seen too many times in Orlaith’s wisteria stare.

  But there’s something else, too ...

  “What have you got to lose, Rhordyn?”

  He lifts his chin. “Everything.”

  Something glimmers in my peripheral; a gem held aloft in his white-knuckled fist—too big for him to fully enclose his fingers around.

  But it’s not just any gem.

  It’s iridescent. The unrefined heart of a pre-storm rainbow. And there’s only one place it could have come from.

  Zykanth trills, peering through my eyes, tapping his essence around Rhordyn’s fingers in a command to drop the treasure.

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, he pulls his arm back and lobs it through the air, watching me with that condemning gaze as I fight to keep Zykanth contained.

  It’s the distant plop that shatters my self-restraint.

  My skin rips, bones crack and grind and swell, muscles pull and stretch, and the water eats us up in a single gulp as we plunge into the sea.

  By the time we return to the surface—our priceless treasure stashed deep in the most protected corner of our trove—Rhordyn’s gone.

  I’m going to die.

  Baze’s sword whistles through the air, nicking my shirt and sending me stumbling down The Plank—the felled tree that stretches from one side of the deep, ashen pond to the other. His follow-up jab has my foot sliding too far to the side, and my arms windmill.

  The glossy water may look serene, but the lofty marshes circumnavigating the lagoon are a fence that contains the sinister truth. Something I’m trying not to think about as I totter on the ball of my right foot.

  I find my center of gravity and fall into a crouch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples.

  “Orlaith, focus.” Baze points his wooden sword at me. “A little blood is no excuse to slack off.”

  I doubt he’d have the same attitude if his dick was bleeding.

  “You’re not playing fair,” I rasp, unfurling like an emerging fern frond ... though nowhere near as glamorous.

  His eyes widen, upper lip peeling from his teeth.

  I shuffle back.

  “And you’re not shielding your weakness.” He makes another dextrous stab for my innards, but I leap out of reach. “And I’m playing more than fair. I didn’t make you wear a blindfold, though I have one on hand in case you continue to move like molasses,” he purrs, donning a sharp smirk.

  “I am not moving like molasses!”

  “Are too.”

  I hiss, bounding forward, swinging so fast I nick a hole in his shirt. I smile, reveling in the win ... forgetting my flank is wide open until his sword collides with my ribs, knocking the air out of me.

  My foot slips and the last thing I see before I strike the surface of the pond is Baze tipping his head to the sky.

  The water snatches me with an icy grip, the stark chill of it shocking my lungs and almost convincing me to suck a breath. I kick, sword still captive in my closed fist, legs churning.

  This pond isn’t like the ocean. It’s not salty and swirling and home to my best friend. It’s still and stagnant and it smells just a little bit like dead things.

  I break the surface and gasp, dashing a slimy piece of weed off my face, caught in the crossfire of Baze’s cutting glare. “Help me up!” I shriek, trying to ignore the splashing sounds that certainly aren’t coming from me.

  “Did you keep hold of your sword?” he drawls, as if we have all the time in the world.

  I wave the thing above my head.

  “Lucky ...” He crouches, watching me with a bemused expression. “But really, I should make you swim to the edge for leaving yourself so open.”

  Something brushes against my foot.

  “Hand!” I squeal, and he finally reaches out. I lunge forward, grasp his palm in mine, and curl my legs as he hauls me free of the frightening water and plonks me on the log.

  I gulp air, sodden hair an anchor down my back.

  Baze kneels, features hard, eyes frosty like the ground on a stark winter’s morning. “That was sloppy, Orlaith.”

  “You almost left me for selkie bait,” I sputter.

  He frowns. “You do that in a real battle and you’re dead. It won’t be a wooden sword smacking you in the ribs. It will be a very real, very metal one sliding through your heart.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Because this”—he gestures to me with a bat of his free hand—”is not the girl I’ve been training for the past five years. I know you’re still getting used to the new sword, but that was a novice mistake I haven’t seen you make since you were seventeen.”

  I hate every word coming out of his mouth right now, mainly because they’re so painfully accurate.

  Rolling my eyes, I pluck a piece of weed from my hair and lob it at the pond that’s now deadly still.

  Too still. I swear I can feel countless pairs of eyes assessing me as the wounded prey I certainly smell like.

  “You’re awfully haughty for a man with a black eye,” I mutter, glancing toward my freshly planted willow, hunting for happiness in its shooting branches.

  Nothing.

  Baze pushes to a stand, casting me in the long line of his shadow. “This isn’t about me, Laith.”

  “And my care factor is at an all-time low.”

  “I can tell. Is it because you kissed the Ocean Drake?”

  I turn so fast I almost lose my balance. “How do you kno—”

  “Is that why you’re out of sorts?” he continues, brow so arched it’s almost hidden behind the mess of hazel hair hanging over his forehead. “It’s the tail, isn’t it? Or maybe his pretty scales? Some girls like shiny things.”

  “You’re an ass,” I spit, cheeks burning.

  “That’s not very nice,” he drones, wearing a frown that does nothing to hide the glimmer in his eyes. “I just saved your life.”

  If looks could kill, he’d be selkie chow, and I’d be free to go check the nabber and gift Shay his first mousy meal in days.

  “You’re the one who told Rhordyn, then?”

  He shrugs. “Rhordyn doesn’t really need me to tell him anything.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly that.” He gestures for me to stand, and I groa
n, pushing up, a little light-headed from blood loss and certain I’m about to slip straight back into the pond without the slightest bit of coercion. “Now, left hand.”

  My shoulders and heart drop in unison. “But you know that’s my weak one. And I’m bleeding.”

  “Correct.” He jerks his chin, and I reluctantly trade hands. “Let’s pretend it’s from your arm and not your”—his gaze darts down, then up again as he clears his throat—”nether regions.”

  I nearly drop my weapon and cost myself another chilly dip in the pond of death to retrieve it. “How about I stab you in the crotch so we’re equally disadvantaged—”

  He strikes too fast for me to trace, but I move on pure instinct and slide back.

  “That’s it.” A lopsided grin curls his lips and rinses me with rapture. It’s the one that breaks across his face whenever he’s semi-proud of me, and I live for it.

  He strikes again, but I arc to the side, and his sword breezes past my ribs. His next move is swift—a brutal shot for my neck—but I manage to defy gravity and swerve the attack, ducking low before I shift all my weight onto one foot and kick the other out ... straight at his feet.

  He goes down hard, his splash so boisterous I’m sure every selkie in the pond heard it.

  My smile is smug, sword swaying through the air as I stare down at the churning water. After a few seconds, he breaks the surface, eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them.

  Embracing the log with one long arm, he reaches his other out to me. “Quick, before they eat me.”

  I roll my eyes and extend my hand, then realize his own is empty ...

  “Wait, where’s your sword?”

  His mouth pops open, then he’s launching up, snatching my hand, yanking—

  I fly through the air.

  The cold water is just as unmerciful the second time round. Just as daunting—rife with the threat of pin-like teeth that latch onto your vulnerable bits and shake.

  I break the surface, gasping, both hands empty.

  “You fool.” My gaze snags on what appears to be a pale rock breaking the surface not too far away, wearing a wig of brown waterweed.

  It’s deadly still ... at least until its large, inky eyes blink open.

  “Now we have to swim to the edge,” I hiss, watching the slitted nostrils on the selkie’s flat nose flare.

  “And fast,” Baze mutters, luring me to glance in the direction he’s looking—seeing six, eight, twelve more heads break the water’s surface and cast their gloomy eyes on us. “Seems they’re attracted to the scent of blood ...”

  “But what about our swor—” My heart leaps into my throat, clogging my spill of words as they dunk below the surface in unison.

  Selkies ... they attack from beneath.

  “Forget the fucking swords,” Baze grates out. “Our toes are more important.”

  He churns toward the reeds, leaving me choking on the wake of his double standards.

  If it were just my sword, he’d have me underwater, hunting through three feet of muck while fending off the swarm with my bare hands. Big commitment for a sword I’m not particularly fond of.

  I take off after him, all too happy for it to stay down there and rot. Fingers crossed the next pair Baze pulls out of his ass is made of a softer, less strident wood ...

  A girl can hope.

  I lower the heavy lid on the wooden chest and clank the deadlock into place, feeling Greywin’s nervous assessment, hot like the heat spilling from his kiln. I taste his tempered excitement in the dense, smoky air.

  Despite the sweltering atmosphere, I’ve always liked this space. The smell of grit and determination has seeped into the stone walls and the wooden tables nesting about. You can see it in the worn utensils and the battered anvil—in the old, weather-beaten man who has a cot set up deeper in the cave so he never has to leave.

  Greywin’s looking at me over the top of his cluttered workstation, a bushy mantle of silver brows shadowing his eyes. The forge is blazing behind him, casting the cavern chamber in a red glow.

  Okay? he signs with fingers knotted from old age.

  His entire family was slaughtered in a Vruk raid over forty years ago, after which he gouged his own eardrums with a stick as self-punishment for not being there.

  This is all he has left. His craft.

  I make a fist and nod it, pushing to a stand, stamping my thumb to the flat of my palm then twisting both hands in opposite directions to signal how impressed I am.

  He grunts.

  Barely smothering a smile, he slips his gloves back on and turns, using tongs to remove a long, fiery blade from the kiln before forcing it into submission with a hammer.

  Ting-ting-ting.

  Clang.

  I lean against the wall, watching him work. His quarters used to be stationed on the castle grounds until I moved him out here nineteen years ago. This cave digs deep underground, so none of his sound spills into the forest or makes its way up to Orlaith’s tower.

  Heavy footfalls echo down the throat of the cave in alternate rhythm to the jarring, metallic strikes. The reek of whiskey and whatever female wet Baze’s cock last night hits me before he emerges into the workshop glow—hair a mess, dark circles beneath his eyes. His top is loosely buttoned, and he didn’t even bother with his boots.

  Two days off, and he’s fallen into old habits.

  I arch a brow. “Good night?”

  He avoids eye contact, scratching the back of his head and repressing a yawn. “You wanted to see me?”

  I watch him for a long moment.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Clearing my throat, I push off the wall, reaching for one of the two swords laid out on Greywin’s work table, both made from an almost black wood with leather-bound pommels.

  Simple, well-made weapons.

  I hand the smaller one to Baze, his brow buckling as he studies it with eyes more vigilant than they were seconds ago.

  “Wait ...” He steals a glance over his shoulder to our master plan—different colored logs stacked against the far wall. Stepping stones to edge Orlaith closer to an eventual metal blade. “Ebonwood?”

  I nod.

  He looks at the blade like it’s going to twist out of his hand and slit his throat. “You’re pushing her too fast.”

  He’s right, of course. But patience is a luxury I’ve been sipping on for years; a luxury I can no longer afford.

  Not when it comes to her.

  “No. I’m not pushing her fast enough.”

  He sighs, weighing the weapon in both hands. “She barely withstands the draw of a metal blade at dinner, and you think she’s ready for this? It’s over double the density of her last sword. The sound difference—”

  “May be jarring,” I finish for him.

  He looks at me through his tangled mop of hair. “Exactly. We agreed to move onto walnut after she got used to the Petrified Pine. Which she wasn’t, by the way. If we hadn’t lost the set to that selkie hovel, I’d have kept her on the pine for the next six months.”

  Six mon—

  “She seemed to cope just fine the other day.”

  “Because she was fucking jacked.”

  An image I’ll carry to my grave.

  I clear my throat.

  “Be that as it may, we don’t have time for walnut anymore. We barely have time for Ebonwood. I was tempted to move right onto Silver Olivewood ...” I shrug; the heavy pelt draped around my shoulders having nothing on the weight that’s been stacked there for years. “I had Greywin thin the hilt on hers instead.”

  “I can see that,” Baze replies, swinging the blade and making it sing. “She’ll grumble ...”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  He picks up the slightly bigger sword I had forged for him in the same wood, and strikes them against each other, splitting the air with a sharp sound.

  He winces.

  Internally, I do the same.

  “And I’m free to hold you accountable?” he grits out,
eyeing me over the crossed weapons. “I’ll be taking full advantage of that because I’ll tell you now, she is not going to like this.”

  I fold my arms and lean against the wall. “My decision. I’m happy to take the fall.”

  Take her hate.

  “You say that now,” he mumbles, inspecting the swords from all angles, “but last time we changed, she spiked my tea with something that made my piss turn green for a week. Just so you’re aware.”

  Greywin lets out a hearty chortle, leading Baze to narrow his eyes on the old man.

  “I thought he was deaf.”

  “He can lip-read just fine ...” the corner of my mouth threatens to bounce up into a half smile, “though he rarely bothers.”

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “Good for you.”

  He jerks his chin at the chest. “What’s in there?”

  “A contingency I hope we don’t require,” I mutter, sweeping past Baze on my way into the cave’s gloomy length.

  He swears, low and sharp, before his hurried footsteps follow.

  “She needs to know, Rhor.” He shadows me through the waterfall of vines that act as a natural door into the dewy forest lit by blades of dull morning light.

  “About?”

  He slays me with a condemning glower. “Everything. Or at least the fucking basics.”

  “No.”

  I let the vines fall back into place behind him and spin on my heel, stepping over mossy boulders and tree roots that twist out of the soil.

  “You’re fucking brutal. I was hoping you’d soften with age, but every year that passes, you just seem to get worse.”

  I brush my hand against a tree. “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

  “Good for you,” he says, matching me stride for stride while we marinate in a stretch of silence. “I hope you’re prepared to pick up the pieces if everything unravels.”

  “That girl has been in pieces since I lifted her from the rubble,” I mutter, watching him veer around a deeper pocket of shadow. “There’s nothing nearby. You don’t have to dodge the dark.”

  He takes the long way around the shadow of a boulder taller than us both, traipsing knee-deep through a rushing brook. “With all due respect, I’m not prepared to take my chances. Have you seen the one she feeds on the edge of your scent line recently?” He shivers, leaping onto dry land. “It’s almost doubled in size.”