Huntress: A Paranormal Romance

by Alexandra Christian

  “There. You’ll do.” Balan smoothed her hair and smiled. It was a sad sort of smile, like he knew that this was the last time he’d ever see her. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and whisked the other two servants from the room. “We’ll just leave you to yourself for a while. The attendants will be here soon.”

  And just like that, he was gone. The silence in the room was a deafening blanket, and Thalia could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the silvery dagger that Tristan had left on the vanity. Perhaps it was just her imagination or maybe some lingering aftereffects of the wormwood infusion, but Thalia thought she could see dark magic emanating from the small object. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. Her own face was reflected in the gleaming blade. The blade was long for a dagger and slightly curved at the end. She could see tiny serrations that would rip and tear at flesh. The hilt was intricately carved with the head of a raven. The eyes of the bird were tiny, deep red rubies that glistened in the firelight. This was an instrument of ritual yes, but also an instrument of death. And it was bloodthirsty. Tristan had told her to wear it holstered to her thigh, but Thalia didn’t want it that close to her skin. Looking around, she found an extra ribbon that was left over from her hair. She used it to tie the heavy dagger into the folds of her skirt, hidden but within easy reach.

  “It’s time.” Thalia’s heart thumped hard in her chest as Balan’s voice broke the silence. Behind him in the doorway were several attendants dressed in black, including the nasty guard that she’d attacked back at Esa’s cottage. As she passed him by, she paused to grin at the thin scar across his cheek left by her arrow.

  “Not so brave now, are we?” he snarled.

  Thalia didn’t allow his threatening tone to diminish her pride. She held her head high, ignoring his words but knowing that he’d eventually live to regret them.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Everything is in place, Highness.” Tristan turned to see Grafton standing in the archway. “The moon rises quickly.”

  “Good,” Tristan replied. He pulled his breastplate over his head and allowed Grafton to buckle it tightly at his sides. He ran his fingertips over the image of the dragon that had been carved into the leather. “This was my father’s armor, Grafton.”

  “Aye. I’ve seen it many times, sire. On your father.”

  Tristan nodded. “When he was strong. Before I had to take over his responsibilities. When he was a good king.” He looked up at Grafton. “My father used to hold me on his lap and tell me tales of his adventures. Stories of war he’d waged to expand the kingdom of Osghast all the way to the mountains of Gwynfir. How his ancestors had worn this same armor to drive out the Dragon Lords and avenge the ruin of Ellythin. Now, I will wear this armor to rebuild that which the dragon has tried to take from us. This will be a good night, Grafton.”

  “Are you certain, Highness?” Grafton’s beady eyes revealed a glimmer of uncertainty.

  “Do you still doubt me?”

  “It isn’t exactly doubt, my lord. But have you considered that if you do not succeed—”

  “Don’t succeed? Why wouldn’t I succeed?” Tristan snapped. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nyxyn will draw the dragon in, the girl will incapacitate it, and I will swoop in at the last second to take its head. Simple.”

  Grafton shook his head. “And dangerous. What if the dragon does not come?”

  “Nyxyn assures me that the ritual will not allow that.”

  “And what if he tears the girl to shreds?”

  Tristan chuckled. “What if he does? She is nothing to me.”

  “She is a dragonslayer in Tarkin! The stuff of legends in the borderlands! If she dies, they will retaliate!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Grafton! From the stories I’ve heard, Huntress is an outcast of her tribe. The girl’s only function is to wound the beast. Weaken it. Distract it long enough for me to swoop in and take its head.”

  “But what of the girl? You must be aware that the dragon will immediately devour her.”

  “As long as he is distracted for a few minutes while he feasts on her body.”

  “Your compassion is overwhelming, Highness.”

  “Compassion? Will my compassion for one peasant girl save the entire kingdom? I think not. Compassion and sentiment is what got us in this position to begin with, Grafton. My kingdom—”

  “Don’t you mean your father’s kingdom?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your father. It’s your father’s kingdom.” Grafton lay a paternal hand on the prince’s shoulder. “As of this morning, King Christophe was still ruler of Osghast.”

  “Not for long, my friend,” Tristan replied, shrugging away. “My reign begins tonight.”

  The streets of Thane were eerily silent in spite of the crowds that lined them, Every citizen was present, all carrying lanterns to light the path to the crags. The moon was full, hanging high overhead like a great eye staring down on the town. Perhaps it was. The gods were lingering overhead, trying to decide their fates. The notion made Thalia even more frightened as she stood at the gates of the castle. Balan and the two handmaidens stood just behind her, ready to carry the impressive train of her gown as she made her way through the streets. Balan had explained that she was being bestowed a great privilege. Thalia wasn’t sure being torn apart by a fire-breathing dragon was any great privilege.

  “Come, my lady,” Balan said behind her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. In her mind, she could see her prince. He would walk with her to the end and stay with her on the crags until it was over. Perhaps then they could dwell in darkness together. Forever.

  Her slippers made no noise on the crude pavement as she walked down the long avenue and into the town. Prince Tristan and his advisor and a magician called Nyxyn led the grotesque wedding party. As they approached the town, she could hear the people chanting. She couldn’t make out the words; they were in some ancient dialect, but it sounded like singing and screaming all at once. She closed her eyes again, and the starbursts of their fires exploded in the dark, making her feel dizzy. She stumbled, and Tristan was there. He took her arm and steadied her. He flashed her that predatory grin and gave a wink that turned her stomach.

  All too soon they came to the cliffs’ edge. The noise of the waves was deafening. Even more ominous was the feeling of disorientation. The only light now was that of the moon behind the clouds. She could not see the water, only hear it and feel the vibration beneath her feet as it slammed into the rocks below. The magician began to read from the ancient leather-bound tome that could only be a grimoire. Thalia wanted to cover her ears as he shouted the words into the quickening wind. The language was ugly and distorted. It sounded like the tongue of demons—a growling and hissing of syllables. Lightning creased the sky, lighting up the narrow stairs that would lead down to the crags. Balan stepped forward and gave a slight bow before taking her wrists and binding them with silken rope. As he finished, he leaned forward and kissed each of her cheeks. Funny, he almost seemed apologetic.

  Thalia looked around as the lightning flickered again. The townspeople had followed them this far and stood around the cliff, watching and waiting. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. People were all the same. The spectacle of watching these men sacrifice her body to the dragon was both horrific and too tempting to pass up. They wanted to weep in disgust and terror as her blood splattered their faces and her innards rained down from the sky as the dragon enjoyed his meal.

  All at once the chanting began again. This time it was furious and almost sexual, panting and moaning into the storm. Balan took her arm and began to lead her down the uneven stone stairs to the altar. Nyxyn was already there. He continued his spell as Balan lifted her arms and fastened them into the loop overhead. It was a precarious place, and she could see the groom’s hands shaking as he struggled to keep his balance on the narrow precipice. He knelt carefully and fastened her ankles to the cuffs attached to the stones.
As the lightning lit up the horizon again, Thalia gasped. She was dangling from the rock face with nothing to hold her back. There was a pop and a whiff of sulphur as fire blossomed from the torch in the magician’s hand. Another whispered word and the flames raged high. The flames sparked and flickered, turning blue. He stabbed the torch down into a hollow place in the rock. Then all went silent save for the low sound of the chanting behind on the cliff and the crackling of the strange torch flame.

  “What happens now?” Balan asked the magician.

  “Now we wait.”

  Thalia watched as they ascended the stairs again. Neither looked back.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there. Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized that she must have fallen asleep at some point. Or passed out. Her arms and shoulders were screaming with pain as she swam back to consciousness, and her face was burning from the wind and salt spray that assaulted her as she hung there in the dark nothingness. The regal gown clung wetly to her frame, and she shivered with the cold. The moon had sunk from view, so it must have been hours that she’d been here. The torch had long since burned out. Perhaps Tristan’s little ritual hadn’t worked. After all, Sheakhol was a Fae secret that was meant to call the Dragon Lords to their marriage beds, and this beast was not a Dragon Lord. He couldn’t be. They were an extinct breed of magic, gone from this world for good. And fire lizards did not respond to magic spells. No, Tristan just meant to leave her out here to die on the crags as a symbolic show of strength. It was ridiculous.

  “Are you out there, King of All Dragons?” she called, her voice dripping with contempt. “Are you afraid to face me? The great Huntress of Tarkin! Well, are you? Come out, you witless wyrm! I am not afraid!” She hoped they could hear her, safe up there in their little enclave. Perhaps they would think she had gone insane. Perhaps Tristan himself would come to see if she were mad. She would kill him with the dagger he’d so discreetly placed upon her. All it would take is one slip of the knot at her wrists. Balan had left enough slack so she could break her bonds easily.

  Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a hollow rumble like thunder. She looked up, thinking how absurd it would be to be struck by lightning at this point. But the sky overhead was calm. The rumble came again, and this time Thalia felt it in her chest. A breeze, warm and humid stirred the water below, and she could feel the spray on her feet. She saw something out of the corner of her eye. A shadow moved behind the clouds, and her heart began to pound. She could smell it before she saw it. A burning smell like the leaves in autumn as they decayed on the forest floor.

  When the dragon emerged from the clouds, she heard the crowds of people on the cliffs above scream and their feet pounding the earth as they ran. It circled overhead, and as its wings flapped, she heard that heavy rustling again. Thalia looked up. It was larger than any dragon she’d ever seen. No wonder Tristan assumed it was one of the lost Dragon Lords. Its body was impossibly long, at least a half-league, with a wingspan to match. She could see the muscles working in its shoulders as it beat its leathery wings against the wind. Its scales were quite black, save for a glowing of what appeared to be red veins running through them. She gasped as it shrieked into the night, announcing its arrival. It was a guttural screaming that struck terror into Thalia’s core. Suddenly, she wasn’t so brave and began to tug at the bonds. Who cared about Tristan’s bargain? This beast was well above her abilities. This was some kind of witchcraft!

  “Dammit, Balan!” she hissed, trying desperately to slip the knot. The more she struggled, the tighter the bond. He’d tricked her! They’d all tricked her! Balan was a practical man. Was it so surprising that he took little stock in Tristan’s planning? He wanted to appease the dragon, believing that it was the only way to save them. “Help!” she screamed. It was pitiful, but what else could she do? “Help me, please! Someone up there!” Of course, no one came. She was their sacrifice. Their savior. Her death would save them, and there was no one willing to stop it now.

  The dragon dove, skimming along the water. Its body kicked up waves of salty spray that stung Thalia’s eyes. She felt the cutting air as it grazed past her, pulling up to light on the rocks overhead with a crash. She pulled back with a shriek as jagged shards of rock rained down. The townspeople screamed as it began to climb up the cliff face, its talons raking at the stones. Thalia closed her eyes, listening to the beast’s heavy breath as it sniffed her out. If she didn’t move, perhaps it would just move on. Tristan’s plan would have been foiled, but she wouldn’t die in the furnace of the dragon’s belly.

  As Thalia was waiting, thinking the spell must have failed, Tristan was coming to the same conclusion. “I thought you said the dragon couldn’t resist the spell, Nyxyn!” The prince was furious and slammed his fist against the marble rail of the observation tower. “It’s been hours, and still the virgin is bound to the crags with no sign! None!” He’d risked far too much to have this blow up in his face. The eyes of every citizen of Thane were fixed upon the skies, waiting for Tristan to slay the Dragon Lord. They stood there in the courtyard below, staring out at the cliffs. Already he could hear their voices carried on the wind. Already they had begun to doubt. No ancient magic or rite was going to save them. Perhaps they would be so frightened that they would move their families out into the border towns. Or worse, they would align themselves with the tribes of barbarians or even the Illyrian knights. Tristan knew that the king of Illyria much desired to rule his rival on the continent. Many times, they had negotiated peace treaties and narrowly avoided open war with them. This sort of exodus could be just the chink in the wall that would lead to a war from which Osghast would most likely not emerge victorious. His father had seen to that with his foolhardy weakness.

  “Patience, sire. Gwynfir is some ways away,” Nyxyn answered. Tristan despised him. A weakling archaic fool. A relic from ancient days. He’d been an idiot to trust magic.

  “The fabled Dragon Lords fly with a speed like a hurricane, you said. Why should it take so long for his wings to carry him?”

  “I do not know, sire. But I did the spell exactly as it was written!”

  Tristan rounded on the smarmy little man. His bald head and ragged robes and the crust of black dirt under his fingernails were annoying in and of themselves. As soon as he was king, Tristan’s first order of business would be to dispose of the disgusting little troll of a magician. “Then perhaps all your wondrous magical feats are just parlor tricks!” he hissed, jerking Nyxyn by the robe.

  Suddenly, the roar of the dragon broke the silence of the vigil below. Tristan threw Nyxyn aside and rushed to the balcony’s edge. Looking down over the courtyard, the townspeople were scattering like angry locusts.

  “Dragon!”

  “Look out!”

  “Mercy!”

  Their words traveled on the wind of its wings to Tristan’s ears. Just underneath, he could hear the little slayer, screaming from where she was bound. She cried for help that would never come. Tristan smiled. The little coward. Tarkinian or not, she was only a woman. His mouth watered imagining her writhing on the rocks below, chained to her fate. Her body would be dripping with sweat by now and her hair hanging in ratted coils around her face. Once this was over, he would have the little Huntress. If she survived, that is. “To the crags!” he shouted.

  The guards assembled out of nowhere. Their heavy armor clanked as they readied themselves for the attack. At first there were only streaks of fire across the sky. It circled, hovering over them, just out of arrow’s range. It was studying the melee below. Would it pick off the townspeople or come after Tristan?

  Tristan descended the jagged stone stairs to where his guards were gathered below. “The dragon is mine! Draw it away from the town and bring it to me!” The guards scattered, Tristan behind them. They emerged from the gates just as the beast hit the cliff face. There was a terrible clatter and roar as it climbed. First one muscular leg, then another as it dragged its body over the side of the cliffs. It crouched low
to the ground, sniffing out the body of the one who had called him. It slithered and hissed, throwing bursts of fire at the fleeing people. Tristan could see the thing’s eye, glowing gold and contracting with the light. It was stalking its prey. There was no sign of blood or remnants of the girl, and Tristan narrowed his eyes in confusion. She was supposed to distract it! The heavy blade of steel he’d given her would pierce the scales, slowing it down, but clearly, she was not holding up her end of the bargain.

  Guards lined each battlement, their arrows notched at the ready. An initial volley served to garner the dragon’s attention but did little to harm it or even slow it down. It had made its way over the cliff. “Aim for its wings!” Tristan shouted down to the captain as he ran toward the fight. The dragon shrugged off the arrows as a minor annoyance, blocking them easily with its iron scaled body. The first wave of guards ran in, attacking whatever they could manage to reach with their swords. The dragon shifted around and threw them to the side with a swipe of its great tail, breaking their bodies as if they were toys. As the archers above continued to spray the beast with iron bolts, the dragon took flight. A great, heaving leap that shook the ground beneath their feet and shattered a minor bastian, spilling guards into the bailey below.

  “Draw it away from the city!” The screams of the guards were desperate, and suddenly Tristan began to think he’d made a terrible mistake. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see peasants bursting into flame, running toward the edge of the cliff and throwing themselves down and into the sea below. Guards being crushed beneath a foot, their bones audibly shattering. Tristan could smell the burning and death and blood. Turning back, he ran toward the castle. He pushed aside townspeople as they ran to and fro, trying to fight their way into the keep. There was another crash, and the dragon roared as it slammed against the outer wall and began climbing its way up the turret.