In the Ravenous Dark

by A. M. Strickland

  A faint smile quirks her red lips. “Are you my guardian now?”

  “I’m whatever you want me to be.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, and then her forehead creases. “Are you really dead?”

  I grimace. Nod.

  “But … how dead? You’re still here. Still moving. I can feel you.”

  “I have no heartbeat. I don’t really need to breathe, other than to speak. I heal quickly, I can use death magic as well as blood magic, and I, uh, drink blood.”

  “Huh,” she says. I expect more questions about that, but then she asks, “And my father is gone?”

  I nod again.

  “Good riddance,” she nearly spits. “But what happened? They all say you tried to assassinate the king and that you succeeded with Kineas.”

  “He, the undead king Kadreus, actually killed Kineas, because your brother discovered who—what—he was. The king is actually worse than your father, believe it or not. He’s a revenant, like me, but insane after four hundred years of ruling this kingdom while his father, bound to him, rules in the underworld. Before I knew who Kadreus was, I was trying to use Kineas to get to him.”

  She shakes me. “Why? Why did you attack him like that?”

  “I’m sorry about Kineas,” I say, even though I’m not, really.

  “I’m not,” Lydea says. “He deserved everything he got, and more. The pig.”

  His death must not be what’s upsetting her, then. “I know I drew more attention to you. I made it so you couldn’t escape on your own, and—”

  “I’m not mad about that, either!” she interrupts. “I’m mad because you got yourself killed. How could you put yourself at risk like that?”

  She still cares about me. And she accepts what I am now, just like that, like she always has for those she holds dear.

  I swallow. “My mother is dead.” It’s still hard to say the words out loud, too horrible for me to think about. The pain will overwhelm me, and I can’t have that right now. “The king killed her. Back when I believed he was your father, I thought I could get revenge.”

  Her eyes close, and she drops her forehead against mine. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “If it weren’t for Ivrilos, I would be completely dead, not halfway there.”

  “Ivrilos?” Her eyes pop open. “I thought you hated each other.”

  “We … um … don’t. He’s actually been trying to help this entire time—to help the living for as long as he’s been around. He’s as little like his family as you are, or as Japha is.” Which might explain why I love the lot of them. Or how we all found each other. “We might actually care a lot about each other.”

  Her eyes widen. “Like that?”

  There’s nothing else to do but say it, so I do, in a rush. “Yes. I fought it as long as I could but I can’t anymore. Not now that we’ve joined forces and that I’m … like this. We can touch each other now. We’ve actually touched each other a lot. And yes, like that.”

  She stares at me for a long while. This is where, in one of those horribly dull tragedies as Bethea called them, someone would murder someone in a jealous rage or swallow hemlock in grief, and then someone’s head would end up on the chopping block. Except Lydea … giggles.

  “I didn’t know shades could do that,” she says, swallowing her laughter. I keep waiting for the explosion, for her to pull away, but then she asks, “How was it?”

  “Lydea.”

  “Fine, you don’t have to kiss and tell. But you still have to kiss me. I mean—” She falters, utterly unlike herself, her grin fading. “If you want to, anymore.”

  “Of course I want to! And, really, if you never want to see him, you don’t have to. I mean, he can choose not to appear around you. But I just had to tell you what we did, before you and I go any further. It’s less weird than it sounds now that I’m dead, too—”

  Lydea taps my nose with her finger, interrupting me. “Rovan, shut up. I love you. And if he does, too, I’m fine with it.”

  I freeze. “You love me?”

  “Obviously, you loon. Which means, if he hurts you…” She trails off, her eyes narrowing threateningly.

  I snort. “I’m already dead.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  My smile drops. I’ve long known that many hurts run deeper than flesh. “I do. I love you, too.” I hesitate. “Want to meet him?”

  “Now?” She blinks. “Okay.”

  At first, I’m amazed. But, as Ivrilos said, love isn’t finite, and Lydea, Japha, and I already built a foundation for sharing. It just needs to expand a little to include Ivrilos.

  I say his name, and he appears at my side instantly. I take his hand. He lets me, only raising his eyebrows slightly in surprise. Lydea steps back at his sudden appearance, but otherwise her expression is smooth. “This is Lydea. You’ve seen her before, but now you can have a true introduction. Lydea, meet Ivrilos.”

  Lydea’s mouth quirks. “I would offer my hand in greeting, but…”

  Ivrilos adjusts his grip in mine, layering his palm over the back of my hand. His skin is cool and firm, still surprising, and his fingers graze my knuckles in a minute caress. He lifts our hands together.

  In a flash, I realize what he’s doing. Using me, he takes Lydea’s fingers and lifts them toward his lips. He brushes her knuckles with a kiss she can’t feel. And for a moment, the three of us are holding hands, through me—a bridge between life and death.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, truly,” Ivrilos says.

  Lydea looks charmed, despite herself. “I can see why she likes you. I’m not about to reconsider men, but—I can see.”

  Reluctantly, I drop everyone’s hands. “If you think all of this is weird,” I say, “wait until we climb out the window.”

  “What?” Lydea says flatly.

  “We need to meet Japha, and we can’t go through a palace full of guards and bloodmages and guardians to do it. With any luck, Japha has convinced their father that he needs to support us against the king. And if they haven’t, maybe you can help sway Tumarq—if you want.”

  “Of course,” she says, “but you still haven’t clarified the most important detail.” I wait, expecting questions about succession or Skyllea, until she says, “I’m climbing out the window?”

  I smirk. “No, I am, and we’re going to strap you to my back.” I gesture over my shoulder. “Hop on.”

  31

  Lydea and I skulk through the shadows alongside Ivrilos, who is currently invisible to everyone but me. After we avoid a pair of guards on patrol, I peer around a pillar across the wide expanse of courtyard between the palace, its outer wall, and the royal barracks.

  This is where I’ve seen Tumarq and Penelope drilling troops. More importantly, Tumarq’s and now Penelope’s quarters are nearby, and bloodmages are unlikely to be wandering through this part of the royal grounds with their guardians, who might spot us.

  To avoid the eyes of the living, I cloak us with even more shadow as we dash into an arcade-covered alley between the barracks and a storage outbuilding. Once there, our only company is a few broken sparring dummies and an empty weapon rack in need of refinishing.

  “This is where Japha said they’d tell their father to meet us,” I whisper, nodding at the outbuilding. Their plan was to send a palace servant with a sealed note for Tumarq with instructions. I hope it worked.

  Ivrilos steps straight through the building’s wall, and only a few moments later sticks his head back out. “They’re inside. Several guards accompanied the general, but Japha rendered them unconscious.”

  So Tumarq didn’t fully trust Japha’s note telling him to come alone, even though it was written in the script of the general’s blight-swallowed homeland. Which means he might not be convinced of other things, such as the fact that his king is an undead, maniacal tyrant, as well as the bringer of the blight—two things we were hoping would win Tumarq to our side.

  Keeping us shrouded in shadow, I head for th
e door.

  “You go first,” I whisper to Lydea. “I’ll keep myself hidden so he doesn’t shout while you still have the door open.”

  Lydea nods and squares her shoulders. Instead of her diaphanous midnight robe, she’s now wearing something more befitting a princess about to have a discussion with her top general: a wine-colored peplos embroidered with a maze of intricate black lines and tied with a silver strophion. She marches right inside. I follow closely behind, hidden by my magic like a true guardian shadow.

  The storeroom smells of wood, leather, and dust, and wall sconces cast flickering light over shelves and weapon racks. A few guards lie on training mats of woven straw. Tumarq, despite the hour, is wearing a bronze breastplate and leather pteryges over his red chiton, his arms and legs armored in bracers and greaves. At our entrance, he looks like he might shout, but when Japha raises their hand for silence and the general sees only Lydea, his princess, he grudgingly subsides.

  “Japha.” Lydea rushes forward to give them a hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I didn’t know what happened to you after I left the necropolis. I never should have deserted you. I’m sorry.”

  Japha gives her a quick but sincere kiss on the cheek. They’re wearing a deep indigo peplos twined in russet leather straps almost like an armored strophion, with more kohl on their eyes than usual—Japha’s attempt at subtle. Their dark gaze flits around her, no doubt seeking me. “I’m okay, Cousin. I’m in fact happily unprotected, if you know what I mean. Have you come alone?”

  Lydea grins. “Free of my guardian and my babysitter, Marklos.”

  “I won’t ask what happened to the captain,” Tumarq says gravely. “For now.”

  “That’s for the best,” Lydea says, giving him a nod. “Hello, Uncle.”

  He nods in return, his tone just as formal. “Niece. If you’re here, I imagine you also support a coup?” He smiles grimly. “You would become queen regent, after all, until a son of yours came of age.”

  Her expression turns to ice. “And you think that’s what I want?”

  Tumarq gestures at Japha. “How else could you support such an outlandish claim as this? That the king is not only a bloodmage and a wielder of death magic in disguise, but a … revenant … as you so call him? Did this accusation originate in Skyllea? Did Alldan put it into your heads?”

  Lydea opens her mouth angrily, but Japha grips her arm. “Father, you know the king hasn’t been himself, not since he was crowned.”

  “And yet not to the extent that I could suspect him to be a different person entirely.”

  Japha raises their hands, as if they’ve been over this before. “He sent Crisea—your daughter—and Delphia, his own, to die in the necropolis, never mind that he always humored Aunt Penelope and Crisea’s training as warriors, and Delphia was his favorite!”

  Tumarq’s face has grown stonier after the mention of Crisea. “Are you sure you’re not upset because he’s no longer humoring you and your inclinations … or lack thereof?”

  Japha takes the question in stride, their voice calm. “Frankly, I drew the luckiest lot in getting betrothed to Helena. I knew I would have to get married sooner or later after I inherited the bloodline. But you’re right, Uncle Tyros often indulged me, just as he did Penelope and Crisea. He respected those in his family who wanted to forge their own paths—as long as it was a path that didn’t conflict too much with his own,” Japha adds. “Don’t get me wrong, the man had a heart of stone, but not like this.”

  “He never indulged me,” Lydea grumbles, folding her arms.

  Japha rolls their eyes. “Because you hated him. Tell me, Cousin, have you not noticed a difference?”

  “I have indeed. Because now he hates me, too. I can feel it.” Lydea frowns in thought. “And I once overheard Father in one of his darkest moods telling Kineas that he would never inflict a marriage like his own on us. That he would never force someone to marry a Skyllean like he was forced to marry my mother. That he pitied his sister Penelope for being bound to Silvean against her will.” She shrugs. “And yet, what does he do as soon as he’s crowned? He not only punishes Aunt Penelope for trying to rebel against her fate, but betroths Kineas to Silvean’s daughter, a half Skyllean, and me to a full-blooded Skyllean prince. True, he never liked me, but not even I thought him capable of doing to me what he so hated having done to himself.”

  It’s Tumarq’s turn to frown, and I feel a flare of hope. “And now you argue this … revenant … has no issue doing it in your father’s place.”

  I take this as my cue. I let the shadows around me dissipate and step forward as he takes me in, his mouth dropping open and his hand reaching for his sword.

  “Just like Old King Neleus wanted—because he is the old king. Kadreus is the same king who’s ruled Thanopolis for four hundred years, and he’s always wanted Skyllea’s power,” I say. “He wants their bloodlines for the polis. He claimed Cylla’s. He wanted my father’s bloodline. And Lydea’s betrothal to Alldan was a safe way to gain access to more of Skyllea’s knowledge. But the king may be regretting his choices now.” I rub my chest. “He made it clear he was getting sick of Skylleans when he stabbed me in the heart.”

  “You stabbed yourself in the heart.” Tumarq shakes his head, eyes wide. “I saw your body. What witchery is this? No blood magic can resurrect the truly dead.”

  I raise my arms. “Because this isn’t blood magic alone. It’s also death magic. I’m a revenant, like the king. Here is your proof, at least, that creatures like us exist.”

  The general draws a few inches of steel. “You’re not proof of anything. You’re a traitor. You assassinated the crown prince—”

  As he’s been talking, Lydea and Japha have both sidled closer to me, their hands at the ready to protect me. A burst of warmth in my chest lends strength to my voice. “The king killed Kineas to protect his secret, and then he killed me. I’m not the liar. The king is.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  I extend a hand. “Because you don’t have to take only my word for it.” Ivrilos’s palm slides into mine. The general gasps as he appears. “You once saw Ivrilos defend the king from my father. Now hear what he has to say.”

  I can’t help but notice it’s the four of us facing Tumarq in a line: Ivrilos, me, Lydea, and Japha. I’m so grateful for them. My odd, wonderful little family.

  Ivrilos gives the general a short bow. “General Tumarq, I have long admired you as a man of strength and integrity. I like to think of myself as one, as well. So please believe me when I say the king you serve is my brother, Kadreus. He was my father Athanatos’s legitimate heir; I’m a bastard. We both died over four hundred years ago—I was sent to the chopping block with my mother and sister, because my mother tried to hide me from him. But, unlike my brother, I found my way to the underworld, where I was pressed into my father’s service. Kadreus remained here, bound to my father as Rovan is bound to me, ruling the living world, while Athanatos rules below.”

  Tumarq’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Even if what you say is somehow true, Athanatos is worshipped as a god in this city. If we rise up against him and his son, would that not be a greater treason than a simple coup against a mortal king?”

  “My father is seen as a god because that’s how he wants it,” Ivrilos says. “I’m here to tell you that he’s just a man, if a monster. He is trying to supplant the goddess. He has reshaped the underworld to reflect his tyranny, and he has used the essence not only of his people, but of the living world to do it. To sustain his dark city, he’s caused the blight that swallowed the kingdom you were once heir to. To stop him—to stop the blight—we must first remove my brother and sever my father’s connection to the living world. Otherwise, more kingdoms will be devoured like your own.”

  True fear—or fear of the truth—flashes in Tumarq’s eyes.

  “And if we don’t remove him ourselves, Skyllea will,” I say. “Because they’re next to fall to the blight. They’ll be forced into war wi
th us instead of an alliance. They’d rather have us as allies, though. Think about how many lives we could save, fighting back the blight together instead of fighting Skyllea.”

  The general’s lips press into a grim line. Still, he waves at my guardian. “How do I know this isn’t some sort of trick? Some conjured magic to convince me to commit treason?”

  “Because I promise you it’s not?” Japha suggests.

  “You don’t know death magic. You can’t know for sure.”

  Japha shakes their head, staring at their father. “Will I ever be enough for you?” they ask flatly. “Despite what you perceive I’m lacking?”

  The general doesn’t seem to know what to say. But he looks far more clueless than dismissive.

  I sigh. “Do you think she’s coming?” I ask Japha.

  “Who?” Tumarq asks.

  Japha shrugs. “If anyone can get her out of there, it’s those creeps.”

  It was the one bit of help Skyllea offered us: The blighted bloodmages were to run a special errand for us. They were supposed to be here by now. Just as worry tightens like a fist in my belly, there’s a knock on the door—one that comes in a distinctive pattern.

  “That’s—” the general starts.

  Japha waves the door open with some sigils, and a dark shadow flows in. At first I can see nothing beyond that, but then Crisea steps out of the gloom, blinking in the flickering light of the storage building.

  The circles under her eyes have grown darker, her brown skin chalkier, but her eyes are still sharp, and she still looks like she belongs in armor more than a death shroud. Lydea drags her the rest of the way inside.

  Japha is about to close the door when Crisea squeaks, “Wait!” and hauls Bethea in after her.

  We agreed that after the blighted mages brought Crisea out of the necropolis, they would remain hidden until needed so as not to frighten anyone. No one said anything about Bethea, but I’m glad she’s no longer in there. Although I am surprised she left.