Queen of Storms

by C. N. Crawford

  I didn’t want to let go of the ropes of magic, didn’t want to let my guard drop around the Reaper, not for a second. She looked demented. How come I hadn’t noticed this happening to her?

  I was about to speak when Melkarth lifted a finger to his lips in caution. “Shhh. That’s how they get into your head. She’s not your friend anymore. She’s a weapon. She’s the Reaper.”

  Oh, hells no. She wasn’t going to stay that way. She wouldn’t remain a puppet, a corrupted thing. Taru had enough puppets to play with.

  “Let’s get home,” said Melkarth.

  Home. Maybe your home, but not mine.

  And I didn’t intend to keep Wren there, either. I just had to find a way to exorcise her little demon issue first.

  Chapter 28

  Quiet had fallen over the Institute—slightly bizarre, given everything that had happened today. But the Institute was protected in a sort of bubble of calm, one of its eerie magical traits.

  My skin felt cold; dread bloomed in my chest. I’d called on Taru’s power too much recently. Then, I’d defied him. And this was why I prayed to Taru. I needed to appease him. Otherwise, he’d be exacting his price from me soon. I could almost feel him breathing down my neck now….

  Taru, protect me.

  Even with his damaged arm, Melkarth carried Wren through the silent hall. She’d fallen unconscious on the way here.

  When we reached Wren’s wrecked room—her luxurious prison—the door swung open to greet us. I stood, leaning wearily against the door frame, as Melkarth set her down on the burnt wreckage of her bed.

  Wren snored, looking much more like herself now. I could hardly believe she’d been attempting to reap thousands of souls just twenty minutes ago.

  My expenditure of magic had completely drained me. As much as I hated to leave my friend here, unconscious, she’d be secure. And I needed a bit of flipping sleep.

  Melkarth crossed out of the room and shut the door as he exited. As soon as the door clicked shut, it flashed vibrantly with light, runes dancing on its surface. Magic—powerful magic—sprang to life; the kind of magic that could probably keep the Reaper locked up in there for good … provided some idiot didn’t come around and set her free again.

  I glanced at the Nathair’s ravaged arm as we crossed back to his room. His face held little expression, but I could tell by the tension in his shoulders that it was bothering him. I’d thought that dragon-bloods healed quickly, but it didn’t look like he was healing so fast anymore. I didn’t know why I even cared, but something about that really bothered me.

  The door to his room creaked open, and I entered. It was warm in there. He sat at the edge of his bed, pulling out his little flask again. His shoulders were slumped, eyes sleepy. I’d never seen him look the slightest bit vulnerable before.

  I wanted desperately to fall into a deep sleep on my cot. I crossed to the door and started to open it, but then I turned back to Melkarth.

  I needed rest, so I could figure out the whole exorcism situation. And yet, instead, I found myself taking a step back toward him, then another. I narrowed my eyes at his arm. “Your arm isn’t healing anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?” He frowned. “Impossible. Dragon-bloods heal—” He pulled down the collar of his singed cashmere sweater, inspecting his enormous shoulder, and fell silent. Some of the damage had healed, but it was like someone had taken a flaming torch and burned part of his skin. It was purple and blackened, cracked in places. It definitely wasn’t healing properly.

  I felt that strange tug again, compelled to move closer, but I stayed rooted in place. And he just stared, silently. Heat poured off him.

  “Can you heal wounds from Taru’s magic?” I asked.

  His pale eyes slid slowly to me. “What are you talking about? It’s not possible to heal wounds from Taru.”

  “But you did. When the gods’ magic struck me during the trial on the pillar, you healed the burn.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I have dozens of scars on my body from Taru’s magic. I’m also several centuries old. If I could heal myself, don’t you think I’d know by now?”

  The sight of his arm was bothering me, and I wouldn’t let this point go. “Then why could you heal me?”

  “I have no idea, Cora. I wondered the same myself, but it was just instinct.”

  “Whatever it is, we need to understand it.” I lifted the hem of my shirt, exposing the deeply scarred skin over my ribs. “Look. This was Taru’s magic. It used to look blackened and blistered like your arm. Can you heal it like you did before?”

  Melkarth seemed entranced with the scar, and his magic was already straining for me like it tended to do. I didn’t even notice myself taking a step closer to him, but I felt that tug, too, like he was an answer to a question I’d been asking all my life.

  The headsman—the dragon himself—was the answer to my question? I must be out of my bloody mind. And yet I was stepping closer to him, my pulse racing.

  When I reached him, he brushed his hands over my skin, and his magic wrapped itself around me like a warm caress. As he touched me, an explosion of radiance and warmth rippled through my entire body. I couldn’t quite explain it, but it felt like he was freeing me somehow.

  He was staring at me so intently, watching his magic curl over my body like it belonged there. There was something strangely intimate about the way he was looking at me, the way his fingertips lightly brushed against the damaged skin on my body. The air felt charged between us.

  And most importantly, the scar began to heal. I gaped down at my smooth skin, undamaged as the day I was born. It was almost like I was looking at a stranger’s body.

  When I met his gaze again, I saw something surprisingly unguarded in his eyes. Our magic spiraled together. I felt drawn to him like a siren felt drawn to the sea.

  I touched his shoulder, and he winced. Taru’s magic wasn’t just boisterous and loud, it was insidious and lingering. Like a flood that ruined houses long after a storm has passed. This scar should be permanent, and yet … my magic could heal him, too.

  My magic intensified, skimming over his arm.

  My eyes widened as, right in front of me, Melkarth’s skin began to knit together and strengthen. I pulled my fingers away just as the healing process started to quicken. The blackness fell away to reveal fresh, pink skin beneath; skin that soon shifted color to match the rest of his body. The burn receded.

  My jaw was open, and Melkarth was staring right back at me. His expression was still difficult to read, but I definitely had his attention.

  He rose, pinning me with his stare, and our magic snaked around us. “This is certainly an interesting development,” he purred. “When Oren brought you to me, half-naked and barefoot, I didn’t imagine you’d be having this effect on me. Though when I pulled your magic out of you, I knew you were different.”

  “Because I was powerful?”

  “I began to suspect you were a powerful witch from Edinnu, with that particular type of sea-tinged storm magic. Overwhelmingly powerful. But no, that alone isn’t what made me think you were different. The fact that you were hurt….” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “When my magic hurt you, it felt off….” He was shooting me an accusatory look, like I’d bewitched him or something.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “I didn’t like it. It felt confusing. It felt wrong.”

  It was so absurd I almost wanted to laugh. “You mean, you felt guilty? The emotion you’re looking for is guilt. That is a normal thing to feel in that kind of situation.”

  “Not for me. Not in centuries. And I would especially not feel guilt over a witch from Edinnu.”

  So, he had a thing about Edinnu. I wanted to ask him about that, but I had another, more pressing question on my mind. “Why did you make clothes for me when I asked for them?” I asked.

  “Where is this question coming from, and what does that have to do with anything?”

  “You knew I was lying. You knew I�
��d caused the storm wave. You knew I’d killed Oren. Why did you basically help me cover it up?”

  He shrugged, taking a sip of his whiskey. “I didn’t really give a rusted farthing about Oren.”

  “A rusted what? I don’t even….”

  “Nor do I give a moldy shilling about the Institute.”

  “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  “And, you know, there was also….” He waved a hand dismissively. “That other thing we talked about earlier. The feeling.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Yes. That.”

  I almost wanted to burst into hysterical laughter at this point. “I have more questions,” I pressed.

  He crossed to his little desk and pulled out a crystal glass—then another. He fixed two glasses of scotch. “Of course you do.” His earlier fascination had faded into calm again, and he swirled his drink.

  “Why, exactly, do you hate witches from Edinnu in particular?” I crossed my arms. “And why are you even here at the Institute if you don’t give a penny-farthing about it or whatever?”

  “That was two questions. And as to your second one, I have little choice in that matter. If I had things my way, I’d be well away from this place.”

  Well, this was interesting. “Why don’t you have a choice?”

  For a moment, a heavy, cold silence reigned. He only had to look at me to deliver the warning that, should I tell anyone about this, I’d invoke his wrath. He passed me a whiskey, then leaned against his desk, watching me. His magic clouded around him, like he was trying to hide himself again, or retreat.

  “Your friend Wren is cursed by Taru to reap souls. I’m not entirely different from her. I’m locked here, compelled to execute for Taru. I was rather hoping Wren could take my place.”

  I glared at him. “Um, no. My oldest friend Wren is not going to take on your headsman job.”

  “That remains to be determined, daughter of Edinnu.”

  “It’s not happening. Does all this have to do with why you needed a witch at the Institute?”

  The room felt strangely hot, and his gaze seared me as he leaned against his desk. “No, the Institute has their own reasons for finding a witch. The pillar must be protected, as it is a door to other worlds that can unleash demon armies and gods know what else.”

  “And you just … you wanted to collect a Reaper to take your spot as executioner. If Taru would accept it.”

  “I did hope a witch could help me to transfer the curse.”

  I felt like I’d been hit with a train. Melkarth? Cursed? What? My head started to pound, my throat working to contain my own secret, a secret that only Wren knew.

  Instead, I asked, “You really think a witch can transfer a curse?”

  “Well, if you can’t handle it, perhaps Tarvis’s skills are superior.”

  “Piss off. And take your moldy shillings with you. And I’m not cursing my oldest friend, obviously.”

  A disturbing noise turned my head, and my senses began sharpening. My body was going cold, hair standing up on my nape. Every one of my muscles went rigid. It wasn’t strange to hear thunder grumbling outside of the castle walls; it had been a constant since I’d arrived. But this time, it was different. The rumbling turned my stomach inside out.

  He’s coming for me.

  “Something wrong?” Melkarth asked softly.

  I put my finger to my lips, trying to listen. It happened again, only this time I felt the thunderous vibrations inside my own chest. “Do you hear that?” I asked.

  The thunder was calling me out to the shore. I had work to do.

  “Hear what?”

  “The thunder….”

  “The sound of thunder is never far from these hallowed halls. It’s been irritating me for centuries.”

  “No, this … this is different. He’s coming for me.” I thrust my fingers into my hair, feeling an unmistakable pull to the sea. “He’s calling for me. Not again. Not again.”

  “Who is coming for you?

  Again, the thunder rumbled, but now, it hit me with enough force that I staggered back.

  “What’s wrong?” Melkarth asked again, more sharply.

  No … not now….

  My skin flushed warm and cold at the same time; my body electrified. Fire bloomed in my throat, and deep inside of me, an inescapable urge to scream emerged.

  “He’s … he’s coming. I c-c-can’t stop him this time. He’s coming to exact his price. The sea is calling.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Taru!” I whispered.

  Taru was coming. I had reached for his magic in my fight with Wren, and now he was going to use that conduit to … use me. I shut my eyes as hard as I could, fighting the feeling off with every ounce of my strength.

  In the end, it was useless. A powerful gale rushed all around me, whipping at my hair.

  I tilted my head back and howled into the wind.

  Chapter 29

  Melkarth

  Not again.

  The words reverberated in the back of Melkarth’s mind as he stared at the empty room before him.

  She was gone. His ears were ringing, his head throbbing, and Cora was gone. He hadn’t even seen her disappear, but the air tasted of salt from the sea.

  Melkarth crossed to the window, shocked at his own disorientation. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Cora. One minute they had been talking, and the next she’d been losing her mind like one of the mad kings of Edinnu, tearing at her hair. She’d paled, her skin turning almost gray.

  Her scream had popped his ears, and his chest had compressed like he’d just crashed into a brick wall. He shook his head again, trying to recover from what the hells had just hit him. Taru. He could smell that bloated beast’s power in the air. This had been the Storm God’s doing.

  From his window, the storm outside the castle looked much the same as usual. Where had she gone—this girl with a strange power over him?

  He turned back, then paused. A girl stood in his room. At first, his spinning head suggested it was Cora. But it wasn’t Cora. It was the other outlaw. The American one. Ree—that was her name, as Cora had reminded him.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  Melkarth glowered at her. “Why are you here?”

  “I thought I heard Cora screaming.”

  “Where’s your knight?”

  “Sleeping….”

  “Typical. That man could sleep through the apocalypse. In fact, he probably did. And how did you get in here?”

  “The door was open.”

  Right. Cora had started to open it earlier. Melkarth thought of asking her to wake Helgar to see if he could help find Wren, but the drunk probably wouldn’t be of much use. Not that Melkarth could think clearly now. Had Cora bewitched him in some way?

  “I want you to do something for me,” Melkarth said.

  “Okay?” Ree said.

  “Are you … any good with magic?”

  “I think I’d be dead already if I wasn’t.”

  “Good. There is a room nearby, the last door on the right side of this corridor. Go there, don’t let anyone near, and whatever you do, don’t open the door. Is that understood?”

  “I mean, I get what you’re asking, but I don’t know why you’re asking it.”

  Melkarth narrowed his eyes. “It’s not important that you understand why, so that’s fine.”

  She turned, skulking out of the room to do as she was asked. Good. That was one thing out of the way. Yes, he’d put a scrawny little thing on guard duty at the Reaper’s door, but he didn’t want anyone going sniffing around that area while was gone.

  Shaking the cobwebs out of his brain a third time brought the world into focus. Clarity returned to his sharp senses, and there, at the edge of his hearing, he caught a sound that both chilled him and spurred him into action.

  It was her. Cora.

  He dashed out of his room, sprinted down the hall, and made a beeline for the nearest castle exit. Cora’s escape
hadn’t been like the Reaper’s. There was no damage to the castle, no shattered walls, no fires or burning embers. Only the smell of Taru, a scent Melkarth’s sensitive nose could follow.

  He arrived at a balcony looking out onto a cloudy, rainy sky, and he threw himself over it. His bones snapped into place, muscles elongating. Ecstasy rippled through his body as he assumed his dragon form in midair. With rain sliding off his scales, he soared through the clouds, racing past the lightning, until he broke through the glamour surrounding the Institute. He soared out into more temperate weather.

  A thick, gray mantle still clung to the Rock of Gibraltar, and Melkarth rose into it, following Taru’s scent. Was Cora flying? How? He hugged the Rock as he flew, twisting with its jagged peaks and watching for signs of the coral-haired outlaw. But she wasn’t in the sky.

  The trail he was following through the misty air started to tilt downward, following the spine of the Rock and heading south, toward the water. Melkarth dove, easily navigating the top of the Rock until finally he had no choice but to descend past the clouds and come into full view of the world below.

  To him, flying always felt like coming home, with the wind rushing over his scales. If only he didn’t have to fly in a world where humans gawped at him. He wasn’t immune to the knowledge that dragons made everyone nervous, and as much as he didn’t care, he was a man who preferred subtlety. Ironic, considering there was nothing subtle about his true form or his magic.

  Ahead of him, the spine of the Rock descended into an open plateau. A single lighthouse cast a beam across the strait from its furthest point. Though the skies were calm, the waters were rough. Waves crashed into the side of the Rock with enough force that the spray climbed over a hundred feet to reach the lighthouse towering above the waterline. The surface of the water itself was choppy and treacherous, frothing like a rabid dog. Tiny ships caught on the sea bobbed and swayed as waves bashed against their bodies.

  As Melkarth descended, he saw an almost phantom mist curl over the cliff’s edge to smother the lighthouse. It quickly spread across the ocean like white blood. The skies darkened, and then he heard it again. It was the same scream he’d heard moments ago, when Cora was in his room.