It’s the crown on his head that steals the show.
“I’m still here, don’t worry,” Orion says into her mind. “You’re in one of my memories.”
“Your highness,” an unfamiliar voice says. Rachel—no, not Rachel, rather the older Orion—turns around to face one of his father’s advisors. How she knows this is beyond her comprehension. The old man with hunched shoulders bows his balding head in respect, and says, “We’ve received word that a handful of maximum-security prisoners have escaped the Leif.”
“Send one of our search teams to contain—”
“Your highness, I regret to say there’s more,” the advisor interrupts Orion. “According to witness accounts, Lady Robins is involved.”
“You must be mistaken,” Orion says. “Misty has been at court since she was twelve years old and has never set foot anywhere near Leif Penitentiary.”
“Yes, your highness, but Lady Robins killed two of the guards protecting the Royal Vaults and kept the third alive to deliver a message to his majesty.” The advisor pauses and clamps his hands together as if saying a prayer before he breaks the wax seal and unrolls a piece of parchment. He hands it over to Orion.
This is merely the beginning of the end for the House of Nebulius.
King Auberon’s ignorance and Queen Aerglo’s prejudices against Halflings and Humans have paved the way for Prince Nova’s cruelty. For years I was his toy, and everyone turned a blind eye to my suffering. I have endured unspeakable humiliations at his hand, simply because I was deemed lesser.
My vengeance starts when the Miser rises.
Misty Robins, Lady of House Goud.
Orion looks up at the advisor. “What did she take from the vault?”
“A few powerful artifacts,” the advisor answers loud enough to be heard over the rushing footsteps making their way down the hallway.
“Be frank, man!”
“She cleaned out the restricted section.”
Orion crumples the note and rushes toward the open door. “Send word to my battalion to ready themselves for war. I need to confer with the king and my brother before I can join them on the battlefield,” he shouts over his shoulder.
“Yes, your highness.”
Static clouds Rachel’s vision for a few moments as the memory changes and she looks out on a dark, open field, surrounded by men and women in heavy armor. They wield swords and hold shields; some are armed with bows or axes. A cavalry stands at the ready, and the riders survey the sky as they keep their horses in line.
Something horrible is coming, she—no, Orion—can feel it.
“Why are you ...? Rachel, go back to the palace.”
The older Orion, the one Rachel’s currently embodying, sees a fast-moving dot grow larger in the sky, heading right for the troops. Behind him, a general shouts for the archers to ready themselves. Ahead, a woman with a silver braid twirls her broadsword in her hand a couple of times, making it appear weightless. She’s a beautiful female with catlike eyes and skin the color of the Kalahari Desert. The woman stops twirling her sword.
“King Auberon should’ve put this Black Annis down when he had the chance. What type of monster cannibalizes her sisters’ children?” The woman’s voice is melodic, too sweet for the battlefield, but nothing about her says she’s inadequate for the task that lies ahead.
“Don’t underestimate her,” Orion warns. “I saw what the Night Weaver did to the Halfling village on our Southern border ... I would never wish what she did on my worst enemy.”
“You don’t want to be here, Rachel. Go back to the previous memory.”
How had she changed the Fae channel in the first place?
The woman sneers, her nose crinkling as if she’s smelled something particularly bad. “They’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place. Halflings don’t deserve our compassion.”
“You sound like my brother.”
“Your brother has his faults, Orion, but he always puts his people first. As the Holy Prophet says: ‘Check your appetite when it comes to breeding with Humans, for the spawn of such unions will destroy—”
“Quoting scripture on the battlefield is inappropriate, Arjean.”
The silver-headed woman sighs, turns her attention back to the battleground, and says, “Without faith, our defeat is certain.”
Rachel recognizes the Night Weaver’s unnerving cackles long before she sees the blue-faced crone through Orion’s eyes.
“She’s wearing the Akrah Cloak?” Arjean asks Orion over her shoulder. “How’d the Night Weaver get her hands on it?”
“Misty,” Orion answers as he unsheathes his blade. The broadsword sports mother of pearl inlays on the gilded hilt. It’s heavy, flashy, and not his weapon of choice.
The Akrah grows longer until the tattered hem drags across the grassy field like it’s the royal cathedral train of a demonic bride’s wedding dress. One of those fabric tendrils fires forward and grabs an archer around his waist. The fabric wraps tightly around the man’s body and lifts him off the ground. He kicks and screams, loses grip on his bow, while arrows rain down from the quiver on his back. When he’s eye-level with the Night Weaver, the cloak unwraps itself.
Orion and Rachel watch in horror as the archer falls through the air, his terrified scream echoing through the dense, dark night, before ending abruptly with a sickening splat.
The Night Weaver turns her attention to Orion, wearing a smile of death. Her needlelike teeth gleam in the moonlight as she mocks a curtsy in midair. “You honor me with your presence, Prince Orion. Now, prepare to die.”
She screeches with delight as the Akrah picks up several of the archers and lifts them off the ground. One after the other they fly through the air, catapulted to their demise. The remaining archers send arrows flying her way. Some find their target, but the arrows simply rebound and harmlessly fall to the ground as the cloak protects its wearer.
All around the army, creatures made of shadows materialize, taking humanoid forms as they rush into the fray. The confusion is interspersed with shouts of: “We’re surrounded!” The battalion is charged from all sides and chaos ensues as the soldiers disperse while they fight against the Night Weaver’s vicious attacks. The Akrah Cloak batters its opponents, while an army of solid shadows finishes the job.
Orion wields the sword with precision, slicing away tendrils of fabric shooting his way, while the generals scream their orders, or his men yell for mercy.
“They’ll never find your body,” The Night Weaver shouts at Orion. “They’ll never find your—”
Before Rachel can hear the rest of the Night Weaver’s manic threat, static fills her vision again and she’s back at the palace, staring up at a golden throne where a painfully beautiful white-haired man sits. Behind him, stained glass windows depict the wise kings of old, warrior queens who sacrificed their lives for the Fae kingdoms and prophecies that are yet to come to pass. Dressed in purple velvet robes and wearing a crown fit for a king, he is utterly breathtaking.
There’s a glimmer in the man’s eyes, one that doesn’t befit someone of his station. It’s unsettling, profoundly evil.
“You’re not supposed to be here. How are you doing this?” Orion asks, stricken with panic.
“You banished the Night Weaver to the Human Realm without attempting to reclaim the Akrah Cloak, one of the House of Nebulius’ most treasured artifacts. What do you have to say for yourself?” the man says in a matter-of-fact voice.
“My attempts would not only have put the battalion in jeopardy but the whole of Orthega. By banishing the Night Weaver to the Human Realm, her magic is limited. The Akrah’s power is restricted now,” Orion answers. “I ... I cannot wield the Akrah Cloak even if I wanted.”
“You disappoint me, brother,” the man says. “How difficult can it truly be to contain these criminals? Are you inadequate to lead my army?”
Rachel’s view dips to the marble tiled floor, and she notices Orion’s hand ball into a fist by his side.
“The Akrah feeds on darkness and I do not possess the amount of darkness required to change the cloak’s allegiance back to the House of Nebulius. Perhaps if you were on the battlefield, instead of frolicking in a brothel, we might’ve succeeded in your impossible task.” Orion’s tone is one of belligerence, which earns a gasp from somewhere in the throne room. He doesn’t look up, much to Rachel’s frustration, but the tense atmosphere congeals like blood.
“You forget yourself, Orion. I’m your king, and I won’t have my brother disrespecting me in my own kingdom. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my king.”
“Now, let’s see how horribly you’ve failed at your job.” He claps his hands, a feral grin in place. “Silencio, how many escapees has Prince Orion recaptured?”
“Two out of twenty-five, your majesty,” a husky voice answers.
The king tuts as he shakes his head. “How many of those twenty-five escapees has Prince Orion banished to the Human Realm, Silencio?”
“Twelve, your majesty.”
“How many of the artifacts that were stolen have been retrieved by my brother, who acts as a general to my men?” the king asks.
“None, your majesty.”
“Thank you, Silencio.”
The king stands and walks down the gilded steps, unnecessarily dragging the process out. Orion averts his gaze back to study the marble floor as several nerve-wracking beats pass before two polished black shoes come into view.
“Brother,” the king says, stretching out his hand so Orion could see his offer. Orion takes his hand and allows the king to help him to his feet. “Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my rule?”
“No—”
The slap is hard, unexpected, but most of all, humiliating. Orion doesn’t retaliate, but there’s an instant where red spots fill the image as rage blossoms into existence. He slowly returns his gaze to the king, who seems giddy with power. The giddiness decreases as the king inspects Orion’s eyes, looking closer.
“Well, well, well,” he says. A terrible smirk forms on his unforgettable face. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” The king grabs Orion by the chin and forces him to look directly into his quicksilver eyes. “Orion has the best taste in women, but I never thought he’d find a human with Fae-like beauty. My, my, isn’t he a lucky one?”
“Get out of there, Rachel. Get out, now!”
The king’s hands move to rest on Orion’s temples. “Let’s see where you are, pretty thing. Let’s see where my brother is hiding you.” Those eyes bore into Orion’s, and Rachel shivers as she looks back. “Do you think I should make him watch while I break you in for my harem, pretty thing?”
Blackness promptly fills her vision.
Nothingness follows.
Then the real-world crashes back into place around her, faster than when she left it in the first place. Instead of looking through Orion’s eyes, she once again stares into them. Instincts take over as her anger floods back. She shoves him away from her.
“You bastard,” she growls, pulling her arm back, and—with as much power as she can muster—slams her fist into his jaw. She stumbles back into the couch and presses her hands to her knees to brace herself while she catches her breath. “Is there something mentally wrong with you? Guys can’t just go around kissing girls without their permission. Not to mention the fact that you slipped me a pill while you had your tongue down my throat! What’s wrong with you?”
Orion flexes his jaw. “It was either me sticking my tongue down your throat, as you so eloquently put it, or hiding the pill in some food and tricking you into eating it. I doubt you would’ve enjoyed being treated like a dog on antibiotics.” He rubs his jaw again. “Besides, if you’d listened and gone back when I told—”
“Yes, because I’m such a pro at whatever the hell that was.” Rachel huffs as she rights herself, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not going to involve myself in your family squabble.” She picks up her umbrella and glances at Greg, who’s as immobilized as when she’d gone into Orion’s mind. She gestures toward Greg and looks at Orion, unable to string together the proper words to convey her indignation.
“He’s perfectly fine,” Orion says, waving his hand as if Greg’s of no consequence. “You, however, are not. Nova’s seen you—”
“Blah, blah, blah, I don’t care,” she interrupts him again. “Now you listen closely, Faerie Boy. I’m going to take Greg and we’re going to leave this infernal place, and if you come anywhere near either of us again, I’ll tell Mrs. Crenshaw where you’ve been holing up so she can personally take care of you. Do I make myself clear?”
Orion lifts an eyebrow. “Faerie boy? Do you have any idea how offensive that is to a Fae male?”
She uses her right hand and gestures to her face, making circular motions in the air. “See this? This is how it looks when someone stops giving a crap about being PC. Now, fix Greg.”
“Do you take me for a total idiot?” Orion crosses his arms. “The moment I let you leave, you’re just going to run off and tell Nancy Crenshaw where I am.”
“You’re at the bottom of my list of concerns,” she snaps back. “Because you decided to ‘banish’ the Night Weaver to Shadow Grove instead of handling her in your world, I now have to deal with her demented taste for children. Thank you.”
“Yet another reason why I can’t let you leave. You’re just going to get yourself killed and you’re probably going to drag Greg down with you, because you, dear Rachel, don’t understand the severity of the situation.”
“Don’t presume to know me,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m cleaning up your mess.”
Orion continues as though Rachel hasn’t spoken, “The Night Weaver’s powers are considerably subdued in the Human Realm, but she still has the Akrah Cloak in her possession. If an army of Fae—each soldier possessing the strength of five humans, some enjoying added abilities that your species cannot even begin to understand—can’t put her down, what chance do you think you have against her?”
“I repeat, don’t presume to know me.” She pushes past Orion, deliberately bumping into his shoulder as she makes her way to her catatonic acquaintance. Rachel haunches down and snaps her fingers in front of Greg’s face. The blank stare, nothing short of creepy, doesn’t dissipate. “Greg? Greg, we need to leave.” Rachel snaps her fingers again. When nothing changes, she grabs him by the shoulder and gently shakes him.
“He can’t hear or see you,” Orion says. “Greg thinks we’re having a productive conversation.”
“Fine. If you want to play, let’s play,” Rachel mumbles, standing to fish her cell phone out of her denim skirt’s pocket. Before she can even swipe the screen, her phone disappears. She looks across the room, to where Orion stands and sees her lifeline in his holding. “How did you—? Give it back.”
“You can have it back as soon as you start acting like an adult. Sit down and listen.” The firmness in his voice is the same tone a parent would employ when speaking to a defiant child.
Rachel grits her teeth—despising being ordered around by some arrogant, privileged guy who doesn’t even belong in this world. She halfheartedly takes a seat beside Greg and sets her umbrella across her lap, gripping it with both hands.
“Thank you,” he says, pocketing her phone as he crosses the living room. He sits on the recliner. “Hand me your umbrella.”
Rachel narrows her eyes at him. “Why?”
“Your umbrella is actually an artifact, which protects its owner from Fae influence. I gifted it to a MacCleary in order to pay for my passage into Shadow Grove,” he says, holding out his hand. “If you want, I can refashion it into something different for you, something practical. Umbrellas aren’t exactly unnoticeable accessories in this day and age, but a necklace is often ignored. It’s also harder to lose a priceless object if it’s around your neck.”
“It can change shape?” Rachel holds up the umbrella to study it, unsure if she believes him. It’s a nice umbrella—uni
que, but it’s just an umbrella.
Orion smiles as he says, “Not by itself, it can’t.” He wiggles his fingers at her. Rachel moves her gaze to his face but doesn’t give him anything more than a dirty look. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. Unlike my brother, I don’t take pleasure from hurting people.”
“You promise you’ll give it back?”
“I promise.” He crosses his heart.
Rachel reluctantly relinquishes her hold over the umbrella and watches as Orion crumples it into his hands like it’s made of tinfoil. “Only a Nebulius can mold the Ronamy Stone into new shapes.” He grins. “In the old days, the Ronamy Stone was often used as a sort of magic DNA tester, especially if there were rumors circling a kid.”
“Nebulius is the house you’re born into?”
“Yes. Blackwood is a pseudonym I use in the Human Realm. My real name is Orion Nebulius, Prince of Amaris.”
Orion stretches the object, as though it’s made of putty now. She watches as he first pulls and pushes the matter, kneading it roughly with his fingertips, before rolling it around between his palms. Transfixed, she stares until a strange blue glow emanates from the unearthly substance that’s both a liquid and a solid. The light changes colors the longer Orion works, first to pink and then to green, brightening the gloomy atmosphere in the apartment. He cups his hands together after a while and a bright golden light seeps through the spaces between his fingers. When he opens his hands again, an umbrella pendant—made of smooth stone, almost reminiscent of his eyes—sits at the center of a golden chain.
“How’s this?” he asks, picking up the chain with his index finger and thumb to reveal the transformed artifact.
She reaches out to inspect the pendant. When nothing feels off about the necklace, she says, “It’s lovely.”
“Nova won’t be able to get into your head if you always keep it on your person,” he says. “Got it?”
The Night Weaver Page 14