There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and even my own hand claps across my mouth.
People don’t often search for love outside their territory, but on the off chance of it happening, the male generally relocates so the female can remain close to her family for support in raising their eventual young.
Not the other way around.
And for a female medis who loves her post? Who I’m beginning to suspect is already with child? It makes little sense.
“Mishka, I must ask. Is this decision your own?”
There’s a silent threat in Rhordyn’s question, and the crowd goes dead quiet, as if their intake of breath is hinging on Mishka’s reply.
Just like mine.
A territory’s strength is in its people’s ability to breed strong men and fertile females. Therefore, the law protects women, preventing them from being coerced into crossing walls and trading colors against their will ... by penalty of death.
Mishka’s feet shuffle, her almost tangible well of nerves serving as fuel for my hammering heart.
“It’s my decision, yes. But as I say, it’s been made with a heavy heart.” Her hands settle over her lower abdomen again. “I’m seven weeks pregnant. Although the thought of raising our young without the support of my mother is daunting ... the thought of staying in Grafton is frightening.”
The last word cracks out of her, and I lean closer to the wall, pressing my face against the cold stone.
“Frightening?” Rhordyn asks, tone even.
Too even.
There’s murder in his voice.
“Y-yes, sire. After the attack on Kriesh a week ago, I had to feed liquid bane to any who were left breathing. A short while back, a bard passing through Grafton sang of other incidents very close to home. Sang of the Vruks growing in numbers and strength. Of children disappearing.”
Children ...
I taste bile, and even from here I can feel the air chill.
“Go on.”
The ball in Mishka’s throat bobs.
“My male says the attacks haven’t yet hit the South, so with great respect, we feel this move is the safest choice for our swelling family.”
Rhordyn shifts forward on his throne, hands steepled, eyes like chips of ice illuminated beneath a full-bellied moon.
There’s a waiting sort of stillness about the room—a silence stretched too thin.
It’s Rhordyn’s job to keep his people safe, and right now ... they’re not.
His hands fall and he straightens. “Another medis will be found to fill your absence. Do what is right for your family.”
Though the words sound genuine, it’s like they’ve been bitten from a slice of slate.
Mishka bows so low her hair brushes the ground, then rises and slips into the murmuring crowd.
I pull back and spin, spine hitting rock.
Children are missing. Vruk numbers are swelling. People aren’t feeling safe anymore ...
I close my eyes, picturing my invisible line of protection hard like a diamond. Hard enough to keep me in. Keep the monsters out.
But it’s all a pretty lie I tell myself, because they’re already here ... in my head.
They already got me.
Still no bluebells. Still just withered stems that bear no bursts of that deep ocean blue I desperately need.
With my knapsack slung over my shoulder, I slip out of Sprouts and dart behind a thick shrub. My hands squeeze into tight fists, fingernails almost gouging the flesh of my palms as I mull over the little bunch of blooms I spotted past my Safety Line—so close, yet so far away.
My bag squeaks, and I lift my gaze to the sky packed with dense clouds threatening to spill again. I frown, scanning the border where tailored, lime-green grass meets the sheer rise of bedraggled trees ...
Perhaps it’s just overcast enough that my friend will come out and play.
Mindful of the many strangers visiting the castle, I dash between well-trimmed shrubs, rose bushes, and moss-covered boulders. I’d never usually attempt such a risky maneuver on a busy day like this, and it’s something I’ll absolutely pin to my lapel next time Rhordyn pecks at me about effort.
Merging with the shadow of a large oak tree just shy of my Safety Line, I look left and right, checking nothing has scattered my border of irregular sized stones before I scan the world beyond.
The forest is gloomy beneath the canopy, its floor a canvas of mossy trunks and rebellious roots that twine out of the ground like tentacles, illuminated by the odd shaft of light.
Those little blue buds are staring at the ground, hanging off hunched stems.
Worrying my bottom lip, I reach inside my bag and pull out the jar containing the fat rat I found tucked inside my Nabber this morning.
Cook was so pleased when I caught the vermin that she promised me a pile of honey buns, despite her busy, pre-ball schedule.
The birds stop chattering and a silence consumes the woods; the air seeming to hold its breath. My sacrificial offering pushes his nose through an air hole, whiskers twitching.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift ...
I glance up to see a dark shape using the shadows of ancient tree trunks like a pathway to approach.
Shay.
He moves fast, a dusky flicker stopping only when he draws near enough that I can sense the void of his body. Feel his pull to be less ... empty.
It always makes me picture a vacant lung trying to inflate.
Kai may be right about these creatures, but my experience with Shay is much different. I don’t see him as a weapon or something fierce and deadly. I see him as my lonely, skittish friend.
A smile teases the corner of my lips as he hovers, the shadow about his head folding back like black smoke yielding to the wind. A face emerges, not dissimilar to the blanched skull of a dog long dead.
His forehead is wide and flat, eyes inky balls set in too-big sockets. His nose is a pallid hook, mouth a toothy slash barely covered by lips the color of milk.
Most would balk at his unveiled appearance, but I’ve seen too many monsters in my nightmares for his face to frighten me.
His lips curl up in a jagged smile, exposing an abundance of serrated teeth. Gaze stabbing at the jar, that smile falls, and he makes a sound I recognize—like a tambourine is clogging his throat.
Hunger.
Nodding, I grip the lid. “All for you, Shay. But”—I look to the bluebells—”I was wondering ...”
Shay regards the plant, then me, head tilted to the side. A long moment slips by before he turns and drifts toward them as if snagged by the hands of a gentle breeze.
My heart trips over a foray of ecstatic beats.
He curls over the precious flowers, stare sliding sideways, eyes clinging to me.
I nod and lower to a crouch, arms banding around my knees to cage my welling excitement.
Shay regards the blooms again.
His ivory, fleshless fingers emerge from his cloak of dense vapor, teasing the air with cautious, clawed strokes. His digits clink together as he reaches for the flowers, and I smile when he grasps the curved stems.
The flowers turn brown, then shrivel until nothing is left but a small bundle of straw-like husks.
My smile fades, lungs empty.
Dead ... just like that.
Shay hisses and snatches his hand away, head whipping to the side, sooty gaze seeming to plead with me.
The sadness in those eyes is a bitter, unnecessary poison. I don’t need to see his sorrow. I can feel it in the atmosphere; see it in the fading of the forest’s jewel-toned luster.
Kai was right about one thing: Shay is a predator, but I doubt my friend enjoys what he has to do to survive, bar the brief satisfaction of sustenance.
“It’s okay,” I say, tone gentle, offering a warm smile I hope touches my eyes. “They weren’t important.”
He looks at the husks again, and I’m reminded of Rhordyn. Of the way he regarded me before he left for the East—like I’m t
he sum of his own self-loathing.
I hate you.
Oh, precious. You don’t even know the meaning of the word.
Or perhaps he’s just sick of me creeping around his castle, rifling through his shit.
I clear my throat and waggle the jar, making the rat squeak.
Shay’s keen, predatory gaze snaps to me, and he makes that rattling sound again, leaving my bluebell corpses at the base of the tree.
He draws near, and I feel the pull of his hollow form trying to suckle air from the surrounding space. For a moment, I wonder how it would be to fall into his void ... if it would hurt or feel like drifting off to sleep in the arms of a friend.
I close my eyes and untwist the lid, keeping it atop the jar as I seek out my non-existent bravery. It takes longer than I care to admit for that tiny surge to hit, but once it does, I shove my hand out and tip.
A fleshy thump breaks the silence, and I snatch my hand back, holding it close to my galloping heart.
I open my eyes to see Shay ascend on his prey in a surge of shadow. There’s a suckling sound—a gentle whoosh-whoosh—his body moving with the tempo as he feeds.
When he retreats, a hard lump of fur and bone and nothing much else is revealed, and he looks up as he sniffs the air, watching like he’s waiting for me to run or be afraid.
He’ll be waiting forever.
I open my mouth to speak, but the words are left unsaid as the shrill sound of a metallic blow jars me to the bone. Another swiftly follows, the sonic a tangible force hacking through the air.
Clang.
The hits aren’t aimed at me, but they strike nonetheless, assaulting like nails hammering into a soft piece of wood.
Clang.
My spine curls, hands cup my ears as the telltale ebb of brain-bulging pain begins to bloom.
It’s relentless. Excruciating.
It’s going to kill me.
Shay swarms forward, doubling in size, stopping just short of the invisible barrier that separates us. He releases a sharp hiss I try to focus on, but it does nothing to soften the blows.
Clang.
The scream threatening to push out of me finds its own tenor. It swells and swells until it’s almost louder than the sound of warring swords, ripping my throat raw and making me taste blood.
I rock and rock, holding Shay’s stare as if it could keep me from bursting into a million pieces.
Something dribbles from my nose, travels down my chin, and drips onto my bunched up limbs ...
I don’t check to see what it is. Don’t dare tear my gaze from Shay’s until his mouth falls open, spilling his own horrific screech. All those sharp teeth seem to slice the sound, fragmenting it into hundreds of piercing shrieks pushed out at once.
It’s an icy blast to my bloated brain.
The taste of blood thickens, my scream bubbling as I tip ... leaning toward Shay. Wanting nothing more than to fall headfirst into the pall of him. Perhaps he’ll take me into a painless splendor where I cease to exist? Somewhere I’m no longer at war with myself.
Shay darts away, and I squeeze my eyes shut, spilling a whimper along with more warm liquid down my chin.
I would have done it. Would have thrown myself at him just to escape the pain.
I’m trapped.
There’s no way out ...
I’m suddenly crowded—touched by unfamiliar hands, surrounded by exotic smells I don’t recognize. Fingers stroke my limbs, and I wail so loud the sound becomes me.
If I open my eyes, will everyone be in pieces? Will their blood be wetting the soil?
Away. Get away!
The ground seems to shake, convincing me I’ve fallen headfirst into one of my nightmares. There’s a deep snarl, somehow tangible over my tortured sounds.
They’re here.
They’ve finally come for me.
I scream louder.
Strong hands weave under my knees, around my back, and I’m pulled against a hard chest that smells like leather and a cold winter’s day.
It’s not a comforting sort of hold, but a cage of arms that pin me in place. It claims and commands ... the sort of grip that can only belong to one person.
I peel my lids open to see the man from the hall standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, his sight trained above my head, set on the person carrying me.
There’s a seed of hate in those cerulean orbs, mildly veiled by a wash of confusion.
A flash of light lures my attention to the silver sword hanging from his white-knuckled grip, and my mouth tingles, stomach threatening to spill.
But I can’t peel my gaze away.
A hand sweeps over my eyes, severing the sight, creating a protective bubble that allows me to pretend there aren’t countless bystanders watching me unravel.
My next scream is muffled, absorbed by a cold, robust chest, and it’s not until the sound tapers that I realize Rhordyn’s heart rate is no longer slow and sludgy ...
It’s violent.
“You’re okay,” Rhordyn murmurs, as if he’s trying to soften his voice.
An impossible task.
He’s rocking with me while warm, sulfur-smelling water laps at my body. It’s a balm to my blazing skin, though it does little to temper the throb of my bloated brain.
I’m convinced it’s about to cleave open and spill my thoughts, my essence ... me.
I try to open my eyes, but a wall sconce sends light knifing into the smudge of my vision.
“It hurts,” I moan through my sandpaper throat, palms bracketing my temples.
Rhordyn’s hand sweeps across my brow, and I nuzzle closer to his chest, breathing hard, searching for that calm spot inside me.
I jolt from another wave of pressure, and a wild scream belts out of me as my spine volutes like a squirming snake.
“Orlaith, I need you to relax.”
“I can’t,” I force out through clenched teeth.
“I can put you to sleep if you think it’ll help. There’s a spot right here”—firm fingers probe the cleft between two taut muscles in my neck—”all I have to do is push.”
“No.”
If he knocks me out, that doesn’t fix the problem.
I keep running ... hiding ... and I’m sick of it. I need to learn to handle myself.
I press my hands to his chest and shove, shocked when he allows me to fall out of his sturdy grip.
The water teases past my breasts as I stagger to a stand. Inhaling deep, I dunk below the surface, dropping through water that grows progressively warmer.
Darker.
It’s only when my bum hits the ground that I open my mouth and scream, releasing a stream of bubbles that assault me on their rush to freedom.
I kick off the stone, darting to the surface and drawing deep, not even bothering to open my eyes before I sink and punch out another scream.
The process is repeated over and over until all the pressure dissipates and I’m listless, suspended, uncaring whether I float to the surface or not.
Strong hands shackle my upper arms and yank me free of the water’s grip, forcing me to stand straight before my back is whacked by the flat of a palm.
“Breathe ...”
I draw a raspy breath and fold forward, resting my forehead on a shoulder that’s more rock than flesh. I suck on Rhordyn’s scent as I’m drifted back against a wall, pressed between man and stone, each equally unyielding.
But it’s Rhordyn I’m leaning against. Drawing from. Using like I do my tonic.
Dammit.
I always end up seeking comfort from him when I’m at my most vulnerable, and it never does me any favors.
Cursing myself, I tip my head back and suck a ragged breath, cracking my eyes open.
What I see has my lungs flattening.
Rhordyn’s eyes, usually metallic plates that bounce light, are absorbing me. His brow is pinched the slightest bit, and there’s something about his mouth that makes it look far less dispassionate than normal.
Th
e concern in his eyes is unfamiliar. I’ve never seen anything but the hardness he wears—his impenetrable boundary.
He’s like that locked door opposite the entrance of Stony Stem. Like The Den and The Keep.
Just something else I want to crack open and explore, though I’ve never been given as much as a peek through the keyhole.
Until now.
Our warring chests collide with every draw of breath; mine bound and clothed, his covered by a thin, black shirt that’s clinging to him like a glove. He’s taking me in as if he’s trying to see past a mask that isn’t there.
I’m an open book, and that’s where our power balance is so very off.
I give too much away, what with how I shiver every time his voice cuts through the air. With the way his closeness snags my breath, and how he makes me feel like I’m safe and protected in the boundary of his castle grounds.
It has nothing to do with the castle, and everything to do with him.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, instantly realizing my mistake.
The words were too soft, too placating, stiffening Rhordyn’s aura like a sheet of ice the moment they left my lips.
Clearing his throat, he casts his gaze to the ceiling. After a few drawn-out breaths, he drops his chin and looks at me through the eyes of that ice-cold mask I’m far too familiar with.
Gone.
Suddenly, looking at him is painful.
I roll my head to the side, veering from the sight.
Four sconces cast the room in a soft, golden glow, illuminating chiseled walls that plunge into the single large spring ...
There’s nowhere to walk around the edges—nothing but a stairway that rises from the water, filling the chamber’s entirety. Even the roof is lower, those mineral fangs much closer to piercing the water’s surface than they are in the room I’m used to bathing in.
Confused, I turn to Rhordyn.
“This isn’t Puddles ...”
“No, it’s not.”
To Bleed a Crystal Bloom Page 22