Fire appears in my hands with barely a sigil-lined thought, two blades of flame in the shape of bright half moons, and they burn an unhealthy blue. The fire of life tainted by death, perhaps.
Damios lunges to meet me, moving like liquid shadow. But I move like that, too, despite my numb, sickened flesh. Blue flames spark off shadowy steel. And as we clash, I remember I found Damios’s statue among the somewhat recently deceased in Athanatos’s line. Which means the strength and experience I gained from Ivrilos is far greater.
Never mind my bloodline—my father’s life experience. His long family line.
I hope both threads of life and death, of blood and breath, are enough to hold me together for as long as I need. As I swing my blades, whirling around Damios and carefully stepping over Japha at the same time, I notice some of my fingernails have fallen off. The distraction nearly costs me my head, but I duck just in time. A clump of my hair, its blue tint gone dull, almost gray, drifts to the floor. It’s more than his blade should have dislodged.
Japha was right. I’m literally falling apart. Ivrilos’s essence is sucking the life out of me, like a blight inside me. I took too much of him. But there’s nothing for it now. And it’s Ivrilos’s instinct that tells me exactly how to end this.
Damios seems to understand I have the upper hand in swordplay—he’s staying away from me, backing down the hall. He must see I don’t have long, and he’s trying to tire me out. But blades aren’t my only weapon. With a few sigils, I create a raging fire on the floor underneath the dead man’s feet, just as I once saw my father do to a different shade. But Damios jumps clear of it.
I hurl one of my half-moon blades, end over end, right at him. He freezes, staring down in shock at where it lodges in his chest. His own sword falls to the ground. Where there should be a clatter of metal against stone, the weapon simply vanishes, because it’s only made of pneuma, like him.
I’m about to bring the fire underneath him again, burn him away like so much smoke. But then an arm comes around Damios’s neck from behind. Ivrilos’s head appears alongside his.
“Goodbye,” Ivrilos says. “For good.”
He kisses him on the cheek, as if in farewell. Damios does indeed turn to smoke, a final look of horror blurring with his face. Instead of disappearing or dispersing, that darkness flows into Ivrilos, vanishing into his mouth like an inhalation.
Not only is my guardian on his feet, he seems a lot stronger now—as dark, beautiful, and deadly as ever. I expect him to be angry, but he only stares at me across the hall. Japha is still sprawled on the stones between us. I feel a distant relief when their body stirs and they give a feeble cough.
Japha is free, I realize, no longer bound by their guardian. But I don’t have time to celebrate on their behalf.
“Rovan,” Ivrilos says quietly. “Stop this. Please. You don’t have to do this.”
Even though I’m resolved in my plan, I still don’t want him to see me like this. I’m not sure how I look, but it can’t be good. I lift my cowl back over my head, but even that loosens more of my hair. “Don’t try to stop me. You can’t. It’s too late anyway,” I say, picking away the strands and dropping them with a strangled laugh.
“Maybe,” he says, the very picture of calm. “But you can still give back what’s killing you. You don’t need to steal it from me, because I’ll help you. Together, we’ll do this. I’ll stand with you.” He holds a pale hand out to me.
His offer is more than tempting. Even when I had only a limited amount of his essence inside me, I still knew how to fight like him. With this much, I’m not sure what I’ve gained other than too many memories and too much death magic.
I stare at his hand, and he lifts it higher. “Come on,” he says, oh so reasonable. “I promise I’m only here to help.”
Carefully, fully aware that my barrier is still intact, I raise my own hand. He lunges for me.
I repel him, even seem to hurt him. He yanks his hand back, hissing, like I’m a fire that has burned him.
“You’re going to stand with me, huh?” I snarl, backing away from him. “You’re such a liar. You were trying to knock me out.”
“I promised I was here to help,” Ivrilos says, shaking his hand. “I don’t know how you’ve shielded against me, but I’m still trying to help. That wasn’t a lie.”
“Your definition of help is very different from mine.” I keep backing away. “You also said you didn’t see my father. Down there.”
Ivrilos follows slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare me into fleeing. “I said he wasn’t in the underworld, which was true by the time you asked.”
“I forgot you like to mislead and pretend it’s not lying out of some stupid sense of honor. But try to get out of this one,” I spit. “What you just now did to Damios … You did that to my father, didn’t you?”
Ivrilos freezes. Closes his eyes. “It would have been worse for him, down there, if I hadn’t.”
“Maybe.” I don’t stop moving. “That still makes you my enemy.”
Ivrilos opens his eyes. The look in them is agonized. He doesn’t try to deny it, but then he says, “I might be your enemy. But you’re not mine. Rovan, I … I care about you. I might even—”
“Shut up!” I shout. It’s hard enough to think I might love him, but to imagine he might feel the same … I can’t, not when I’m on this path.
As if in response, Ivrilos’s memory of my father surges back into my mind, stronger than ever. But this time, he’s still alive, standing over me, my body once again laid out on something too much like a funeral slab. Marklos—that bastard—is the one to slit his wrists. My father’s blood pours out, but it doesn’t fall. My father uses it to sketch sigils—so many sigils—in the air above me. Ivrilos must be standing at my head, watching it all happen. No, he’s keeping me under, trying to deaden my pain, even if I feel it in my dreams. I shift and moan in my sleep. Eventually, my father’s blood looks like a complex web ready to settle over me.
And then, my father, sounding dazed, drunk, his eyes nearly rolling, says, “Goodbye,” to no one in particular. And then to Ivrilos, he says, “Take care of her.”
“See you soon,” Ivrilos says. And then my father collapses, just as the bloody net drops down on me.
Before long, they’re both standing in that dark world. It’s much like the glimpse Ivrilos gave me of my father before, but now there’s more. I realize my father no longer has his bloodline.
“Don’t tell Rovan about her mother,” he says. “I don’t want her to do what I did, throw herself madly at her own death. If the thought of protecting her mother can keep her safe—as safe as she can be in that den of snakes—then I want her to hold on to it.”
“As you wish. I, too, think that’s for the best,” Ivrilos says.
My father seizes Ivrilos’s shoulders—he can now, like he never could in life. “I’m begging you, as a father, as the one who has given my life to you, and soon my second life, if you can help her, if she can help you … please, consider it.”
Ivrilos clasps his shoulder in turn with a firm hand. “I will.”
The fire goes out of my father, but not without a final spark. “If you don’t,” he says with a weak bark of laughter, “then I hope she ends you. For good.”
“She’s welcome to, once I’ve done what I need to do.”
My father sighs. “There’s nothing else for it. You’ve told me what happens to wandering shades down here, and I’d rather you do it. I’m ready.” But then he asks, his voice heartbreakingly small, “Do you know what comes after this?”
Ivrilos shakes his head. “I have only died once.”
“That was a long time ago, I imagine.”
“And yet someday—maybe soon—even I will follow you.” My guardian hesitates. “I hope. Until we meet again. Honor to you, my brother.”
“Farewell,” my father says with a crooked smile and tears in his eyes. “Bastard.”
“That I am.” Ivrilos leans forward and k
isses him on the cheek.
The memory clears, leaving the Ivrilos of now still standing before me. “I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I was trying to keep you from doing this.”
I shake my head. I know my father wouldn’t have wanted me to do this. But now I understand: He couldn’t help doing the same, after he heard about my mother. And neither can I. “You only want me safe for the sake of your revenge,” I insist.
Ivrilos throws a hand behind him, toward where he … ate … the other guardian. Tendons stand out in his powerful arms. “I ruined my chances at revenge when I finished off Damios.” He’s trying to stay calm, but it’s a struggle. “Killing some common guards is one thing, but one of the ancient royal line?”
I shrug. “You can blame me. Hell, you can report me, if you give me a minute. And if I fail in my task, you can carry on your plan with the next bloodline you’re bound to. Maybe they’ll even give you a promotion.”
I sound indifferent, but part of me is dying inside.
“I don’t want a fucking promotion,” he snaps. I don’t think I’ve heard him use that particular curse before. He reaches up, gripping handfuls of his hair, nearly unseating his circlet. He looks more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him. In more pain. “I don’t know what I want. I’m not sure I want to save this kingdom if you’re not in it.”
“Don’t,” I say, raising a hand to silence him. But then I drop it because I don’t want to see my mottled skin, missing fingernails. It’s appropriate that I’m wearing a death shroud. “Revenge has driven you for four hundred years. I don’t believe you’ve forgotten it as quickly as that.” I take another step back down the dark passage. “And right now, it’s time for my revenge. But maybe you can get yours soon, too. I might even be helping you.” I turn. “Follow me, if you want.”
“Rovan!”
I ignore him, moving as fast as my limbs will allow me down the rest of the underground passage toward the palace. I refresh the shield between me and Ivrilos, resketching the sigils as I move, for good measure. I know he’s following, but I don’t look back.
I’m on a warpath.
25
The gold-threaded marble and flower-wreathed columns of the palace pass by in a flurry of jagged edges because of my strange, enhanced vision. In every line, I see a blade. In every bit of red, dripping blood. And in every shadow, spirits that scream in agony as they’re devoured.
All I see is violence. Death.
I think I might be losing my mind. And it’s only getting worse. Another memory rises unbidden, and I can’t tell if it’s Ivrilos’s or my own. We’re both sitting before my gaudy lion’s mouth of a hearth, cast in flickering firelight, and he’s saying, I think some form of madness might take you before death would. And with how powerful you are, the consequences could be … horrific.
Well, here we are, I think hysterically. I try not to let it slow me down.
Hidden by my shroud and deep cowl, I make it all the way through the palace to Kineas’s door without anyone raising the alarm. Ivrilos obviously hasn’t reported me to the underworld authorities, nor have Bethea or Crisea to any shadow priest. Damios’s second, final death has gone unnoticed. The guards at Kineas’s door, however, try to stop me.
“Excuse me, miss, but the crown prince has asked not to be—”
I follow the path of sigils in my mind, and I raise my rotting hand. My fingers map it out.
Both guards collapse on the ground, staring at the blossom-covered ceiling. The only evidence of the violence done to them is their blood-red eyes, flooded by the force I exerted on their skulls with my indelicate sigils. It’s good that I’ve never tried to knock anyone out before now.
If I hadn’t previously crossed some invisible line, I know I just did. These sorts of sigils had never come easily to me, because I never wanted them before. I do now.
Behind me, Ivrilos lets out a string of curses and vanishes. I know where he’s gone—to devour their shades in the underworld.
He’s also eliminating witnesses. Which means he still has hope that this can turn out any other way than how it will. I already know: I’m going to survive neither this nor my second life as a shade. There will be no immortality for me.
So I leave the bodies where they lie.
I’m equally discreet with my entrance. Kineas’s elaborately carved, gilt-lined double doors are made of wood, and I blast them open with a wave of my hand. Perhaps I could move stone now, too, with a word—I hear an eerie whisper in my mind, trying to tell me how. If blood magic can shape life through written symbols, death magic must shape what is lifeless through spoken words. Two sides of the same coin, really: the breath of the dead, sigils written in the substance of life. But I don’t want to use it. If I start channeling death magic, I’m worried my body might just disintegrate.
Blood and death magic really do seem to want to destroy each other.
Kineas’s apartments make mine look positively common. Gold is in abundance everywhere, not only veining the deep blue marble of the outer room’s pillars, but lining every piece of furniture with elaborate filigree. Gold practically rains from the ceiling with chandeliers molded like draping branches, their leaves wrought in silver and blossoms cut from pearly glass. Even the wall sconces are gold cast in the shape of naked women lifting their bright flames high above their heads, exposing their ample bosoms.
Of course Kineas would be that tacky. It’s a small consolation I’ll never have to join him in these apartments.
I hear a muttered curse past another gilded set of doors. His despicable voice rises: “I said I was not to be disturbed!”
I kick in those doors with sigils. They slam against the inner walls, sending one of several large mirrors shattering on the mosaic-tiled floor. I try to avoid my reflection in the others, though I glimpse grayish, flaking skin beneath that once-hated red sigil on my cheek and black mottling around my mouth. Revulsion crawls up my spine. Luckily the light is dim in here, the thick curtains tightly drawn and only scattered candelabras lit—for a purpose I soon see.
Kineas flies upright from under elaborately embroidered covers, his hair tousled. He’s in a massive bed at least twice as big as mine, the four corner posts carved to look like naked women upholding a canopy of midnight blue silk embroidered with gold and silver stars that actually sparkle and drift. His bed also has about that many flesh-and-blood women in it. There’s a gasp and a yelp from where they’re half-buried under the covers. Even a giggle.
They probably think I’m here to catch them in the act. I don’t care about them at all.
“Get out,” I growl.
Several pairs of kohl-lined eyes widen in the shadows of the deep bed. One girl makes a move to slide out of the covers, but she freezes when Kineas snaps his fingers at her and shakes his head, like she’s a dog.
“Rovan, darling,” he drawls, tossing his pewter hair out of his eyes. He leans back languidly against a luxurious stack of pillows. “Why don’t you get out? I never granted you permission to enter. You might be eager for the marriage bed, but need I remind you we aren’t wedded yet?” He blinks. “Where are my guards?”
“I killed them,” I say, and then look at the girls. “I only want you to leave so I don’t have to kill you, too.”
One of the girls screams, and then they’re all out of bed, stumbling and running for the doors in various states of undress. Kineas snarls at me, hurling the covers aside. He tugs a himation hastily around himself, but not before I see more of him than I ever wanted to. It makes me doubly grateful I’ll never have to again. He also grabs a long, wicked dagger from off his bedside table. A ruby the size of an eye winks from the pommel.
I hope it’s there to use against unforeseen threats like me, and not against the women who have the misfortune to regret being in his bed. But I’ve heard the stories, and I have my doubts.
“There’s no chance you killed my guards. Your guardian would have stopped you.” He marches toward me, but his steps falter as he gets
a closer look at me in the dimness. “What in the goddess’s name is the matter with you? You’re hideous!”
I shake my head slowly, vaguely hoping more hair doesn’t fall out. “No, I’m dying, and I’m taking you to the underworld with me.” I get no small satisfaction in watching the blood drain from his face. “But first, let’s take a walk.”
Kineas raises the dagger in shaking hands, the blade and ruby glinting in the candlelight. “I’m not going anywhere with you, you disgusting witch. Look at you!”
Of course he wouldn’t want to come with me because of how I look, not because I threatened to kill him. I should be angry, but instead I start laughing. I can’t help it. It’s just so funny.
“You’re insane!” he shouts.
I swallow my laughter with difficulty. “I might be.”
“Guards!” Kineas yells. “Help!”
“I told you, they’re not coming.” Another giggle escapes me. “Can we go now?”
Kineas lets out a wild cry and charges at me with the dagger upraised.
Merely sketching sigils, I break every one of his fingers. The snaps are loud, like chicken bones popping when you twist the leg from the thigh. I’m actually impressed with my accuracy, though I wouldn’t want to try anything requiring more delicacy than that. Healing must be terribly difficult.
I’m not here to heal.
Kineas howls and drops the dagger. He tries to catch it, fumbling it in useless fingers and slicing his palm open, before it hits the floor, the ruby clacking loudly. Bent with pain, he stares down at his reddening, rapidly swelling hands, one now dripping blood. He releases a strangled groan.
“You bitch,” he half sobs. “You’re going to pay for this.”
I’m staring at his hands, too—rather, the red oozing from the one. I can’t stop staring. It’s like something has seized control of my body, and I just need to get closer …
I reach for Kineas’s hand, but he jerks it away—understandably, though I can’t have that. With a wave, I slam him against the wall, breaking another mirror, and seize his wrists, feeling the warm wetness ooze over my fingers. I marvel, because where his blood touches me, the dark rot recedes from my skin.
In the Ravenous Dark Page 25