Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

                                                                                            stair before them and

                                                                          deeper into

                                                                the dark

                                        shadows at her back

       and in her hair

                                      the black giving her wings

                                                        flying faster than

                                      Scaeva’s guards could run

  reaching the slowest of them and cutting him down in an instant, the dark seizing hold of the one beside him and ripping him asunder. Looking ahead, she caught a glimpse of a purple toga among them, her heart racing quicker. The rest of the guards turned, ten remaining, blades flashing, eyes bright.

  She Stepped between them, cutting through them, shadow black and silver quick. But even as she danced, her gravebone blade writing red poems in the air, she realized

  She realized …

  Something’s wrong.

  She couldn’t feel him. The familiar sickness. That ageless hunger. The presence of another darkin crawling on her skin. Her heart sinking, she saw the purple toga she’d glimpsed had simply been slung around one of his guard’s shoulders—another deception from a master of it, easy enough to believe in this gloom. Mia wondered for a moment if Scaeva might be cowering somewhere in the shadows. But even if he were hidden beneath a mantle of darkness nearby, still she’d feel it, sure as she could feel the fear creeping slow into her belly.

  Goddess, he’s not HERE.

  Desperation budding in her chest, rage that she’d been duped, peeling her lips back from her teeth. She snarled and stabbed, swayed and Stepped, cutting his men into nothing, slicking the floors and walls. Standing at the end, chest heaving, wisps of ink-black hair stuck to her skin, sword dripping in her hand. Searching the dark with narrowed, burning eyes.

  She Stepped on, flickering down the twisting hallway in the pulsing warmth until finally she arrived at Adonai’s chambers. Lunging through the doorway, she saw the speaker knelt at the head of his blood pool, thick chains of black iron wrapped about his wrists and ankles. Crimson runes gleamed on the walls, the light was low and bloodstained. Adonai’s eyes were closed and he was breathing slow, but as she entered, he looked up, pink irises on hers.

  “Hello, little darkin.”

  “Scaeva?” she gasped.

  The speaker frowned in confusion. Then slowly shook his head.

  Shit.

  Could he have been hiding out in the gloom while his guards led her on this merry chase? Could he know some trick of the dark? Could he have already escaped?

  Could he have doubled back?

  O, Goddess …

  Mia looked back down the corridor she’d come by.

  Dread certainty turning her belly to ice.

  “Jonnen.”

  * * *

  Jonnen’s brow creased as his stomach rolled.

  He looked up the stairs. First to the western door, past the looming form of Butcher. Then to the eastern stair, where Naev stood poised by the railing, sword raised in steady hands. Jonnen’s heart was beating quicker. He could suddenly feel it—that strange, never sated hunger. That feeling of a missing piece inside him. Searching for another just like it.

  “Mia?” he asked hopefully.

  Naev turned at the sound of his voice, eyebrow raised. “She is returned?”

  “I don’t—”

  The woman lurched sideways on the stair, grunting in surprise as something heavy collided with her. There was no sign of what had struck her, but still she crashed backward into the railing, gasping, arms flailing as she fought for balance. The Something struck her again, hard in the chest, smashing her back against the balustrade. The woman cried out, eyes open wide.

  “Naev!” Jonnen cried.

  She was struck a third time, a brutal blow right in her face. Nose bloodied, Naev bent backward, fingers clutching at nothing as she lost her balance. And with a wail, the woman fell out into the empty air. Her arms pinwheeled, robes billowing about her, veil whipped back from her terrified face as she plummeted forty feet into the stable below, hitting the stone floor with a gut-churning crunch.

  “’Byss and fucking blood,” Butcher breathed.

  Eclipse growled beside him, her hackles rising.

  “… BUTCHER, BEWARE…!”

  The gladiatii had his sword raised, stepping back into a defensive stance.

  “What’s th—”

  A blade flashed, bright and gleaming in the dwindling light. Butcher’s throat opened wide. The big man staggered, hand at his neck to hold back the flood, squinting at the vague, muddied shape now standing on the steps in front of him. The gladiatii lunged with a bubbling curse, his gladius moving swift. Jonnen heard a ragged cry, saw the shadows shiver, his father appear on the stairs. A bloody gouge was carved through the imperator’s forearm, his purple toga abandoned, blood-red spattering the white robes beneath.

  Whisper was coiled about his throat, the shadowviper lashing out at Butcher’s face. The big man struck out on sheer instinct, slicing through the serpent’s neck as he flinched back. But the creature was as insubstantial as smoke, the steel cutting nothing at all. Precious seconds and energy wasted on the strike.

  Butcher gargled, hand and throat and chest drenched in blood. He fell to one knee, red teeth bared in a snarl. Jonnen saw his father retreat a few steps up the stairs, bloody dagger poised. The boy’s stomach rolled, his eyes filling with tears as he saw the big gladiatii drag himself back to his feet.

  “R-run, boy,” Butcher wheezed.

  Eclipse coalesced between the boy and his father, snarling.

  “… JONNEN, RUN…”

  The boy shuffled back down the stairs. One step. Then two. Butcher took an unsteady step forward, made a clumsy swing at the imperator. But blood was fleeing the big man’s body in floods now, puddling about him, all his strength and skill for naught. His father easily avoided the strike, stepping back again as the Liisian stumbled and fell.

  “Butcher!” Jonnen cried, tears in his eyes.

  “Iac-como…,” the big man gurgled. “R-R…”

  Eclipse glanced over her shoulder, fangs bared in a snarl.

  “… RUN…!”

  The daemon leapt over Butcher’s fallen body, mouth open wide. Whisper hissed and struck, black fangs sinking into the wolf’s neck. The shadows fell into a tumbling, snarling, hissing brawl, rolling down the stairs. Eclipse growled and snapped, Whisper spat and bit, black spattering on the walls and spraying like blood. Jonnen took another step back, almost slipping in Butcher’s blood. Tears running down his cheeks. Horror turning his insides slick and cold.

  “My son.”

  The passengers continued to brawl, but the boy simply froze. Looking to his father on the stairs above him. Spattered in crimson. A golden laurel upon his brow. Imperator of the entire Republic. Tall and proud and strong. Ever possessed of the will to do what others would not. Butcher lay dead on the stone before him, Naev splattered on the floor below—just two more bodies added to the pile.

  “Father…”

  The imperator of It
reya raised one red hand, beckoning.

  “Come to me, my son.”

  Jonnen looked to their shadows on the wall. His father’s was reaching out to him, both hands open and welcoming. Jonnen saw his own shadow move, reaching toward his father and catching him up in a fierce embrace.

  The boy himself yet remained still. The dagger Butcher had gifted him clutched in his hands. But his eyes were drawn back to Eclipse and Whisper, still brawling on the stairs. Black blood spraying, fangs bared, hissing and growling.

  “Whisper, stop it!” the boy demanded.

  “… JONNEN, RUN…!” Eclipse snarled.

  Jonnen saw his father’s eyes narrow. Fear rising in the boy’s belly, running cold in his veins. The imperator lifted his other hand, fingers clenching. The shadows moved, sharpening themselves to points, striking at the wolf and piercing her hide.

  “Don’t!” the boy cried.

  Eclipse howled in pain, more shadowblood spraying. Scaeva cut the air with his hand, sent the daemon sailing into the wall. Whisper struck, razored teeth sinking again into Eclipse’s throat. Black coils wrapped around the shadowwolf’s body, squeezing, crushing, fangs sinking in again and again.

  “… Do you regret your insult now, little dog…?”

  “… J-JONNEN…”

  “… Do you fear me yet…?”

  “Father, make him stop!” the boy cried.

  The boy could feel tears burning in his eyes. Watching Eclipse’s struggles weaken. Whisper’s coils squeezing ever tighter, fangs sinking ever deeper. Eclipse whimpered in pain, thrashing and rolling and biting.

  “The blood you have in your veins? You’re strong enough for both of us.”

  Jonnen raised his hands, fingers curling into claws as he used his gifts, seizing the snake’s neck in an invisible grip. He smashed Whisper against the wall as the serpent flailed and hissed, tail lashing, tongue flickering.

  “Lucius!” his father snapped. “Release him!”

  The boy held still. Frozen with it. That voice he’d known since before he could talk. The authority he’d obeyed since before he could walk. The father he’d admired, sought to make proud, wished all his life to grow up to be.

  His sister had taken him in. Showed him her world. Eclipse had lived in his shadow for months now. Kept his fear at bay. The daemon had loved him, just as fiercely as she’d once loved another boy, just as lost and afraid as he.

  “… CASSIUS…,” she whimpered.

  But this was the man who’d raised Jonnen. Who’d known him for years, not months. The man he’d feared and loved and emulated. The sun shining in his sky.

  “Lucius, I said release him!” came the cry.

  And so, though it tore him to his heart, though the tears scalded his cheeks to burning, Jonnen looked at Eclipse. The shadow he knew almost as well as his own. The passenger he’d carried across storm and sea. The wolf who loved him.

  “I…,” he sniffled, looking at the knife in his hand. “I don’t…”

  “Lucius Atticus Scaeva, I am your father! Obey me!”

  And you may hate him for it, gentlefriend. You may think him a weak and callow wretch. But in truth, Jonnen Corvere was just a nine-year-old boy. And Father was just another name for God in his mind.

  “I’m … s-sorry,” Jonnen breathed.

  And slowly,

  ever so slowly,

  he lowered his hand.

  Free once more, Whisper struck. Eclipse fell, yelping as black fangs sank deep into her hide. Again. Again. Tears burning his eyes, Jonnen heard screaming, just beyond the edge of hearing. That hunger swelling inside him. Whisper twisted and sighed, the serpent’s coils roiling and tightening around the shadowwolf’s body. And as Jonnen watched, horrified, Eclipse began to fade.

  Growing weaker.

  Paler.

  Thinner.

  “… J-JONNEN…”

  The wolf slowly diminishing.

  “… C-CASSIUS…”

  Until only the snake remained.

  Dark enough for two.

  “Lucius.”

  Sobs bubbled in the boy’s throat. Horror and grief in his chest, threatening to choke him. All the world was burned and blurred by his tears as he looked up at his father’s outstretched hand. Smeared in blood. Spattered with black.

  “It’s time to go home, son.”

  His little shoulders sagged. The weight of it all too much. He played at being a man, but in truth, he was still only a child. Lost and tired and, without the wolf in his shadow, now desperately afraid. Whisper slipped across the space between them, into the dark puddled at his feet. Eating the fear, just as he’d eaten the wolf. Soundlessly, Jonnen dropped the dagger Butcher had given him.

  “Imperator.”

  Jonnen looked up the eastern stairs at the sound of the voice. Through his tears, he saw a tall Dweymeri woman, breathless and filmed with sweat. She was dressed in emerald green, lips and eyes painted black. She wore gold about her wrists and throat, but she was stripping off the adornments, tossing them down to the stables below.

  “Shahiid Spiderkiller,” his father said. “You live.”

  “You sound surprised, Imperator,” the woman replied, slipping off another bracelet. “If you’ve a will to leave this place, we should travel together.”

  “The Red Church has failed me, Spiderkiller,” the imperator replied. “Why in your Black Goddess’s name would I bring you with me?”

  “I thought perhaps I’d bring you with me,” she replied with a dark smile. “And I have failed nothing. I swore vengeance against Mia Corvere, and vengeance now I have. So if you’ve a mind to see us safely down to the speaker’s chambers, I’ll tell the tale of how I’ve killed your daughter for you.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed. Head tilted. Weighing it all in his head. His flock of assassins was all but destroyed, his daughter’s bloody revenge against the Red Church all but complete. And yet, though the Ministry had failed, the imperator of Itreya wasn’t one to cast aside a perfectly good hammer simply because it had bent a single nail. One killer he might make use of yet remained among Niah’s faithful.

  And so, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

  The Dweymeri woman descended, shedding the last of her jewelry and taking her place at his father’s side. The shadows about them darkened, his father’s voice darker still.

  “Come here, my son.”

  The boy met the man’s gaze. Dark and deep as his own.

  The sun shining in his sky.

  The god in his eyes.

  “Yes, Father,” Jonnen said.

  And slowly, fearlessly, the boy took his father’s hand.

  * * *

  Adonai waited in silence.

  The chains about his waist and ankles made it painful to kneel, so he sat at the head of the blood pool instead. Waiting for the little darkin to return and free him. The speaker could smell fresh blood in the air, feel it flowing unchecked in the levels above—young Mia’s assault was obviously going well. His eyes were closed and he was breathing slow, searching for calm. In the turns since Drusilla had learned of his treachery, he’d found very little, truth told.

  When the Lady of Blades had sent emissaries to his chambers and informed him Aelius and Mercurio’s conspiracy had been uncovered, he’d been dismayed. But when he’d been told that his sister had been imprisoned, that she’d be held in captivity to assure his cooperation until after Mia Corvere was dead, Adonai had been consumed with rage.

  The emissaries Drusilla had sent had been drowned in his pool. The next two, who bore one of Marielle’s severed ears on a velvet cushion, he’d torn to pieces with vitus spears. It was only after a turn of impotent fury that the speaker realized he had no choice but to obey. Drusilla was holding the one person in the world he truly loved to ransom. She had the one weapon that could truly be used to hurt him.

  As long as Marielle was in their keeping, Adonai was in their thrall.

  So he’d allowed them to bind him in irons. He’d delivered th
e imperator to the Mountain as commanded, the Blades that Drusilla had called to Mia Corvere’s kill. He played the meek one, the frightened one. Hoping the Lady of Blades might be foolish enough to deliver herself into his clutches to gloat or goad. But she never did.

  And so now, Adonai waited. A picture of perfect calm without. A tightening knot of crimson rage within. Palms pressed to his knees, legs crossed, only the ruby liquid in the pool before him to betray his agitation. Mia had arrived in his chamber, breathless and bloody, only to discover her father had outwitted her and doubled back into the Mountain. She’d fled off into the labyrinthine halls in pursuit, her comrades on her heels, sadly neglecting to take the time to free Adonai from his chains before she departed. Rather unkind, he’d mused, but sooner or later, she must—

  “Speaker.”

  Adonai opened his eyes. Belly thrilling with fury.

  “Imperator,” he hissed.

  Scaeva coalesced out of the shadows before him, chest heaving. A serpent made of shadows was coiled about his neck, his wounded arm bound with bloody cloth. A boy stood beside him, bleached with fear—presumably the imperator’s son. Spiderkiller stood there also, the gold that usually glittered at her throat and wrists conspicuously absent. But Adonai was far more concerned with the woman sagging in the Shahiid’s arms.

  Sister love, sister mine …

  Marielle was drugged senseless, eyelids drooping, hands bound. Spiderkiller held a small golden knife against his sister’s throat.

  Adonai narrowed crimson eyes. The blood in the pool churned to life, long whips of it uncoiling from the surface and rising like snakes, pointed like spears, weaving closer to Scaeva and his brat and the Shahiid of Truths. But Spiderkiller tightened her black grip on Marielle, pressed her dagger into his sister’s neck.

  “I think not, Speaker,” she said.

  “Thy daughter is searching for thee, Julius,” Adonai said, looking at Scaeva. “She was here a moment ago. If thou wouldst take but another moment to catch thy galloping breath, I am certain she’ll be back anon. Unless thou dost plan to spend the rest of the turn playing hide-a-seek with her in this dark?”

  “Transit,” the imperator said, ignoring his barb. “Back to Godsgrave. Now.”