Runebreaker

by Alex R. Kahler

  “That can be arranged.” Aidan didn’t bother sitting up. Instead, he curled one arm behind his head and let the other rest over his stomach. He kept his Sphere open. Not for defense, but for effect. Proper lighting was everything.

  Besides, he knew Tomás wouldn’t hurt him.

  It was a dumb assumption, yes. But it didn’t make it any less true. Especially when Tomás smiled like that. He knew he had the Kin on a short leash. The incubus may have been created to evoke desire, but Aidan had many years of playing with Fire to know a few tricks of his own.

  “What are you doing here?” Aidan asked. He cocked an eyebrow, trailed his free hand down to the waistline of his pajamas. “You don’t strike me as the type of guy who just likes to watch.”

  Tomás chuckled. “He thinks he is so cute,” he muttered. Then growled in the back of his throat. “The trouble is, he is right.”

  Tomás knelt at the bedside in one smooth motion, folding his arms under his chin and tilting his head to the side, staring at Aidan through thick eyelashes, his hair a beautiful tangle.

  “You don’t strike me as the type to watch, either. And yet here you wait, while the Guild does your dirty work.” Tomás’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t help you kill my brother so you could hide away and rot.” There was a fierceness in Tomás’s voice that made Aidan worry, just for a moment, that his assumptions of safety were wrong.

  “Plans changed,” Aidan said smoothly. He waved his hand and curled more flame around it, watched the threads of fire dance between his cracked knuckles.

  Tomás reached out trailed his finger along the knuckles of Aidan’s other hand.

  “And you plan on letting them control you?” Tomás said. “Perhaps I chose the wrong man as my king. Perhaps he is not strong enough to rule.”

  Aidan clenched his fist and the fire turned blue. “What would you have me do?” he seethed. “I can’t just incinerate them all.”

  Tomás reached out and took Aidan’s fist. Flames spiraled around the two of them. Anyone else, the fire should have burned. But it licked against Tomás’s skin without leaving a mark, and even though they were Aidan’s flames, something about the way the fire curled over Tomás made him think the incubus controlled it as much as he did.

  Aidan couldn’t help but feel like that exchange was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.

  Tomás watched the flames dance. Then he turned his gaze back to Aidan, his expression serious.

  “Who says you cannot?”

  And for a moment, Aidan could see it.

  He knew the weaknesses of this place, knew where one well-placed explosion could bring down a wall, or which hall to burn to snuff out the lives of the most of his brethren. He could do it. He could bring all of Glasgow down—city and Guild and all—just as he’d done with Edinburgh. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Guild on fire, saw the chaos he could bring, saw himself walking through the flames...

  “Yes,” Tomás whispered, his voice a soothing temptation. “There is the man who would be king.”

  Aidan yanked his hand away and forced Fire and the dreams of its conquest into submission. He didn’t let go of the Sphere, though. “I’m not killing other Hunters.”

  “Why not? You have before. Five times, in fact. No need to stop now.”

  “I’m not a monster.”

  Tomás’s eyes narrowed, but his lips curled into a smile.

  “Perhaps not like me. But in your own way...”

  “I don’t think you’re a monster,” Aidan said, the words drawn from his lips. He knew it was what Tomás wanted him to say. He found himself trapped in Tomás’s gaze, those copper-flecked irises pulling him in.

  “And that is why you might be one,” Tomás whispered. “It is also why I like you.”

  Despite the heat running in his veins and the actual sparks that could set the bed ablaze, Aidan chuckled at the corny line. “You? You like me?” Howls didn’t like anyone. Not even the Kin.

  Right?

  Tomás’s other hand reached over and gently caressed Aidan’s cheek. “I like you very much,” Tomás whispered, his eyes flickering from Aidan’s eyes, across his face and down his chest. “In a way...in a way you remind me of myself. The passion. The anger. The lust for power.”

  “That’s not all I lust for,” Aidan said. And drew his free hand up along Tomás’s naked torso, resting it on Tomás’s face. Tomás practically purred at the touch, and the intensity of being this close had narrowed Aidan’s focus to acquiring only one thing.

  But when he pulled Tomás’s head toward his, the incubus broke away.

  In a flash, he stood back against the shadows of the wall. Aidan wondered if he might be the only man in history to be turned down by a literal sex demon.

  “No, no, not yet,” Tomás said. His voice was breathy, his chest heaving. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at Aidan all the while with a mix of desire and confusion. “You are an interesting one, my king. For you, I think, I would burn down the world.”

  Aidan pushed himself to sitting. Tomás seemed to be wrestling with himself, and Aidan enjoyed watching the struggle.

  “I’ve already done the same for you,” Aidan said.

  “He has, yes. But he must prove himself again.”

  “How am I supposed to prove myself when I’m locked up here?” Aidan asked, gesturing to the walls around him. “I’m not going to kill my own Guild, no matter what you offer. I can’t exactly just run off to find your brother’s shard when I don’t know where it is. I don’t work for you.”

  Tomás smiled. Aidan had thought the statement would set him off, but if anything, the Kin seemed to like it. “I know, my king. You are in control. You are always in control. But there is much you must yet do. My brother was but the first—”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Aidan said. He sat up straighter. “Another one of you was killed. Leanna.”

  He hadn’t known if he would bring it up with Tomás, but the moment the words left his lips, he knew it was the right—and wrong—thing to say. A dozen different emotions seemed to burn behind Tomás’s copper-flecked eyes. Chief among them: regret.

  “How did you know?” Tomás asked quietly.

  Aidan shrugged. “Prophets. Sometimes we get word from the temple in America for big things. Like losing the Kin that ruled the country.” He leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because,” Tomás said. “You should have been the first to feel that victory. The blood of a Kin on your hands. The taste of immortality. You deserved it more.”

  “More than who?”

  Aidan could tell he had Tomás trapped then, and it filled him with a sort of power, one he hadn’t felt when he killed Calum. Now he felt in control.

  “Who killed Leanna?” Aidan pressed. His eyes narrowed. “Or did you do it? Like you did with Calum?”

  The room grew cold, yet sweat dripped from Aidan’s skin.

  “I did not kill my sister,” Tomás whispered. “Nor did I kill my brother. I merely made them ready. Presented them. To those who needed to secure their place in history.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Tenn. And if you are not careful, he will come and kill you, too.” Tomás knelt at Aidan’s side, took his hand. “We cannot let that happen,” Tomás whispered. “I couldn’t bear losing you. My prince. My king. That is why you must trust me. Why you must secure your power here. For when Tenn comes for you, he will surely try to kill you.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” Aidan said. Leaned in closer.

  “Nor will I,” Tomás replied. He reached out, gently cupped the side of Aidan’s face. Aidan curled against the hot and cold of the Kin’s palm. “While you rest, I am seeking the heart of my brother’s power. The shard that pulled him from the grave. When I find it, I will send you for it. And when you hold the secret of his resurrection in your han
ds, even death will cower at your feet. Then, and only then, will you secure your place in history.”

  Tomás’s breath was hot against Aidan’s lips. Aidan could see it, could feel it—the power of immortality, the spark of life he could snuff or enflame.

  “And the boy?”

  “Means nothing, in the end. Not compared to you, my king. Nothing compared to you.”

  Aidan leaned forward. Pressed his lips to Tomás’s. His vision exploded in heat and desire.

  But a second later, the Kin was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It pissed rain, but nevertheless, his mother wanted to see the Isle of Skye.

  They’d taken the ferry over. Even though there was a perfectly good bridge. His mother said this was part of the experience.

  Apparently, the experience she wanted to have was patting his back for half an hour while he vomited over the side rail.

  In the rain.

  In December.

  By the time they reached Armadale, Aidan was colder and more miserable than he’d been in his entire life. Less than four days in this country, and he wanted to go back to Vermont. Not something he ever thought he’d crave.

  He wanted to say the island was beautiful. Something about the rows of houses and winding cobbled roads and gnarled trees made him think of home. Not that Vermont had the tenement flats, and the hills in Vermont were more mountains, but something about the smell triggered memories. The wet earth and decaying leaves. The fresh rain.

  Or maybe it just reminded him of home because he was finally on dry—ish—land.

  They were safely in their B&B. Aidan had showered and put on warm clothes. His mother was reading a guide book by the window, and when he looked at her, his heart ached. Every single second she was in this country, she appeared younger. He felt the opposite, but it was nice to see her feeling better. It had been a hell year for her—her mum had passed away of cancer earlier that year, and her dad of a broken heart a few months after.

  It didn’t help that magic was discovered a week or so after her mom’s death.

  Magic could have saved her. Both of them.

  It just hadn’t been fast enough.

  Aidan and his dad had put the trip together for the two of them. A way to get Aidan’s mum away from everything. And a way to get Aidan and her to reconnect.

  Seeing as he’d just spent the last thirty minutes vomiting in front of her, it seemed to be going swimmingly.

  At least she got to mother him again, something she often said she missed being able to do now that he thought he was too old for it.

  “What do you feel like doing first?” she asked.

  “Staying dry,” Aidan said. He flopped down on his tiny bed and wrapped his arms around his knees. Everything in this country seemed miniature—the tiny rooms and tiny beds and tiny tea sets. Outside, rain kept pouring down. Didn’t the sky ever run out of water?

  His mother looked at him and smiled sadly. “Oh, come on, Aidan. It’s just a little rain. Besides, everything we have is waterproof.”

  “I hate being cold,” he replied. “And waterproof is an overstatement.” His coat and pants were currently draped over the heater, though whether they were drying or just making the windows fog was up for debate.

  “Why don’t we go for a hike?” she asked, as though she hadn’t heard his complaint. She’d gotten really good at ignoring them over the last few years. “You can wear my extra sweater. And then we can come back and have hot chocolate.”

  “I’d rather just watch TV. You know, British television is so fascinating.”

  He made his voice as deadpan as possible. And he hated himself for it. A tiny voice inside of him was screaming to stop being an asshole, to stop adding to her pain, but he couldn’t control himself. That part of him wanted to go out and hike with her. It wanted to connect, to talk about his boyfriend and what he wanted to do with his life and daydream about the future.

  Instead, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

  He hated himself for it.

  Hated himself.

  Especially when she sighed and put her guidebook down.

  “Well, I’m not going to waste what little daylight we have sitting in here,” his mum said. “I can watch TV at home.”

  She stood from the alcove and began putting on her layers. Slowly. He watched from the corner of his eye. Knew he should turn off the TV and give in and go with her. But it was like every second that ticked by was a grain of salt in the wound, a rub against his pride. If he had agreed earlier, he could have gone. But he’d put it off too long and now he couldn’t let himself change his mind.

  She sighed a lot.

  Every time he hated himself more.

  “Okay, well,” she said. She stood by the door. Looked at him sadly. “You sure you don’t want to come along? Just a little walk. Maybe go see some sheep. Baaaah.”

  He just shook his head. Ignored her hopeful grin at making the sheep noise.

  “Okay,” she said again. Shuffled about. Pulled her hood up over her long black hair. “I’ll be off then. I’ll bring you a hot cocoa on my way back. Would you like that?”

  He shrugged.

  Fuck, you ass! Why are you being like this?

  “Okay. Bye then.”

  He didn’t watch her go.

  But when the door latched behind her, he jumped from the bed and went to the window. A minute later, she stepped outside into the rain, her back turned to the B&B, and walked up the cobbled road beneath the dead trees. He watched her go, a purple smudge against the rain. And when she was out of sight, he thudded his head against the window frame, hating himself for doing this. Again.

  That was the point of this trip. To make him stop being a selfish ass. To reconnect. To stop pushing everyone away.

  Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, and not from the pain.

  He could still jump into his rain gear and run outside to catch her. He could still make this right.

  But he wouldn’t.

  Because he was a coward.

  Because he was an asshole.

  He deserved for his heart to hurt like this. But she didn’t. He wasn’t supposed to be hurting her. Just himself. He was the only one who deserved it.

  “Damn you,” he whispered to himself. That, and a dozen other horrible things. Not one of them made him go and put his boots on. Not one of them would push him from this room.

  He knew it. And he hated himself more for it.

  No.

  No, he could change this. He had to.

  He turned from the window to go put on his boots, to run out and say he was sorry, to go join her for an evening of staring at sheep and laughing and drinking hot chocolate in some little café somewhere.

  And there, standing between him and the door, was a woman.

  Not just any woman. But her.

  She stood there, wearing a long black dress that seemed sewn from shadows, her blond hair spilling across her back and shoulders like moonlight through poisonous smog.

  “I wouldn’t go out there, were I you,” she said. Her voice was a hook against his heart.

  He heard it, and he knew he would follow.

  “You know what you will find outside that door if you go,” she continued. Took a step forward.

  And he knew. He knew, because this was a dream, and he had already lived this. He knew he would try to make things right—he would put on his shoes and run out the door and it would be raining but he would find her. He would find her in her silly purple parka beside a field watching the sheep and when she saw him, she would smile. Then something would flicker in the field. Something fast—something from a nightmare. The sheep would scream and bleat and run, and she would look between him and the monsters approaching on the field, creatures neither of them had seen before, and she would know. Some
how, she would know. Mother’s intuition. And she would scream at him to run.

  Run, as she ran the opposite direction. Away from him. Toward the monsters in the field.

  He would scream after her.

  He would watch as the monsters overcame her, as her screams for him to flee turned into something else.

  And he would hate himself. But he would run.

  From her. As she died to save him.

  “I could save her,” the Dark Lady said, pulling him from his memories.

  “Save her?” He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save anyone. That wasn’t what he was good at. He was only good at hurting. At destroying. At killing.

  After he’d watched his mother sacrifice herself for him—something he would and could never have done for someone else—he had turned to that. To doing only that.

  He wasn’t here to save. He was only here to ruin.

  “Yes,” the Dark Lady said. Closer now, so close she could reach out and touch his face. “I am the ruler of Death, my child. And those who worship at my feet need never fear Death’s cold embrace.”

  “She’s gone. She’s already dead.” The words fell too easily from his lips. Heartless. Heartless. He was always heartless.

  “No, my child. She waits here. In my embrace.” She brought Aidan’s hand to her heart.

  Her dress changed in that movement, rippled out to become a purple poncho, slick with rain, and then he was staring into his mother’s eyes, and had she not been holding his hand, he would have crumpled.

  “Mum?”

  His mother smiled. Nodded.

  Then her eyes widened in fear, and between one blink and the next, she was gone, replaced by the woman in shadow.

  “Serve me,” the Dark Lady said. “Help me return, and I will return her to you. Whole. I will help you mend the relationship you wish you’d always had.”

  There should have been a voice telling him not to. There should have been a whisper in his heart that this was wrong, so wrong. This was the Dark Lady, the woman who’d created the Howls and bastardized magic and destroyed the world.