A Darker Shade of Magic

by Victoria Schwab

  On her steed, his sister watched, amused, as Athos tossed a coin to the boy’s mother, who stood beside him.

  “Öt vosa rijke,” he said. “For your loss.”

  That night, the empty-eyed soldiers came, broke down the doors of Beloc’s small house, and dragged the boy kicking and screaming and hooded into the street, his mother held back by a spell scrawled across the stone walls, unable to do anything but wail.

  The soldiers dragged the boy all the way to the palace and delivered him, bloody and beaten, to the glittering white floor in front of Athos’s throne.

  “Look at this,” Athos chided his men. “You’ve hurt him.” The king stood and looked down at the boy. “That’s my job.”

  Now the whip split air and flesh again, and this time, at last, Beloc screamed.

  The whip cascaded from Athos’s palm like liquid silver, pooling on the ground beside his boot. He began to coil it around his hand.

  “Do you know what I see in you?” He wound the silver rope and slid it into a holster at his waist. “A fire.”

  Beloc spit blood on the floor between them. Athos’s lips twisted. He strode across the chamber, caught hold of the boy’s face by his jaw, and slammed his head back against the wood of the frame. Beloc groaned in pain, the sound muffled by Athos’s hand over his mouth. The king brought his lips to the boy’s ear.

  “It burns through you,” he whispered against the boy’s cheek. “I cannot wait to carve it out.”

  “Nö kijn avost,” growled Beloc when the king’s hand fell away. I don’t fear death.

  “I believe you,” said Athos smoothly. “But I’m not going to kill you. Though, I’m sure,” he added, turning away, “you’ll wish I had.”

  A stone table stood nearby. On it sat a metal chalice filled with ink, and beside it, a very sharp blade. Athos took up both and brought them to Beloc’s pinned body. The boy’s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen, and he tried to fight against his binds, but they did not give.

  Athos smiled. “You have heard then, about the marks I make.”

  The whole city knew of Athos’s penchant—and his prowess—for binding spells. Marks that stripped away a person’s freedom, their identity, their soul. Athos took his time readying the knife, letting the boy’s fear fill the room as he swirled the metal through the ink, coating it. The length of the blade was grooved, the ink filling the notch as if it were a pen. When it was ready, the king drew the stained knife out, the gesture seductively slow, cruel. He smiled, and brought the tip to the boy’s heaving chest.

  “I’m going to let you keep your mind,” said Athos. “Do you know why?” The blade’s tip bit in, and Beloc gasped. “So I can watch the war play in your eyes every time your body obeys my will instead of yours.”

  Athos pressed down, and Beloc bit back a scream as the knife carved its way across his flesh, down his collar, over his heart. Athos whispered something low and constant as he drew the lines of the binding spell. Skin broke, and blood welled and spilled into the blade’s path, but Athos seemed unbothered, his eyes half closed as he guided the knife.

  When it was over, he set the blade aside and stepped back to admire his work.

  Beloc was slumped against his binds, chest heaving. Blood and ink ran down his skin.

  “Stand up straight,” commanded Athos, satisfaction washing over him as he watched Beloc try to resist, his muscles shuddering against the instruction before giving in and dragging his wounded body up into a semblance of posture. Hatred burned through the boy’s eyes, bright as ever, but his body now belonged to Athos.

  “What is it?” asked the king.

  The question wasn’t directed at the boy, but at Holland, who had appeared in the doorway. The Antari’s eyes slid over the scene—the blood, the ink, the tortured commoner—his expression lodged between distant surprise and disinterest. As if the sight meant nothing to him.

  Which was a lie.

  Holland liked to play at being hollow, but Athos knew it was a ruse. He might have feigned numbness, but he was hardly immune to sensation. To pain.

  “Ös-vo tach?” asked Holland, nodding at Beloc. Are you busy?

  “No,” answered Athos, wiping his hands on a dark cloth. “I think we’re done for now. What is it?”

  “He is here.”

  “I see,” said Athos, setting aside the towel. His white cloak hung on a chair, and he took it up and slung it around his shoulders in one fluid motion, fastening the clasp at his throat. “Where is he now?”

  “I delivered him to your sister.”

  “Well then,” said Athos, “let’s hope we’re not too late.”

  Athos turned toward the door, but as he did, he caught Holland’s gaze wandering back to the boy strapped against the metal frame.

  “What should I do with him?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Athos. “He’ll still be here when I get back.”

  Holland nodded, but before he could turn to go, Athos brought a hand to his cheek. Holland did not pull away, did not even stiffen under the king’s touch. “Jealous?” he asked. Holland’s two-toned eyes held Athos’s, the green and the black both steady, unblinking. “He suffered,” added Athos softly. “But not like you.” He brought his mouth closer. “No one suffers as beautifully as you.”

  There it was, in the corner of Holland’s mouth, the crease of his eye. Anger. Pain. Defiance. Athos smiled, victorious.

  “We better go,” he said, hand falling away. “Before Astrid swallows our young guest whole.”

  IV

  Astrid beckoned.

  Kell wished he could set the letter on the narrow table that sat between the thrones and go, keep his distance, but the queen sat there holding out her hand for it, for him.

  He drew King Maxim’s letter from his pocket and offered it to her, but when she reached to take it, her hand slid past the paper and closed around his wrist. He pulled back on instinct, but her grip only tightened. The rings on her fingers glowed, and the air crackled as she mouthed a word and lightning danced up Kell’s arm, followed almost instantly by pain. The letter tumbled from his hand as the magic in his blood surged forward, willing him to act, to react, but he fought the urge. It was a game. Astrid’s game. She wanted him to fight back, so he willed himself not to, even when her power—the closest thing to an element she could summon, something sharp, electric, and unnatural—forced a leg to buckle beneath him.

  “I like it when you kneel,” she said softly, letting go of his wrist. Kell pressed his hands flat against the cool stone floor and took a shaky breath. Astrid swiped the letter from the ground and set it on the table before sinking back into her throne.

  “I should keep you,” she added, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the pendant that hung from her throat.

  Kell rose slowly to his feet. An aching pain rolled up his arm in the energy’s wake. “Why’s that?” he asked.

  Her hand fell from the charm. “Because I do not like things that don’t belong to me,” she said. “I do not trust them.”

  “Do you trust anything?” he countered, rubbing his wrist. “Or anyone, for that matter?”

  The queen considered him, her pale lips curling at the edges. “The bodies in my floor all trusted someone. Now I walk on them to tea.”

  Kell’s gaze drifted down to the granite beneath his feet. There were rumors, of course, about the bits of duller white that studded the stone.

  Just then the door swung open behind him, and Kell turned to see King Athos striding in, Holland trailing several steps behind. Athos was a reflection of his sister, only faintly distorted by his broader shoulders and shorter hair. But everything else about him, from complexion to wiry muscle to the wanton cruelty they shared, was an exact replica.

  “I heard we had company,” he said cheerfully.

  “Your Highness,” said Kell with a nod. “I was just leaving.”

  “Already?” said the king. “Stay and have a drink.”

  Kell hesitated. Turnin
g down the Prince Regent’s invitation was one thing; turning down Athos Dane’s was quite another.

  Athos smiled at his indecision. “Look at how he worries, sister.”

  Kell did not realize she had risen from her seat until he felt her there beside him, running a finger down the silver buttons of his coat. Antari or not, the Danes made him feel like a mouse in the company of snakes. He willed himself not to pull away from the queen’s touch a second time, lest it provoke her.

  “I want to keep him, brother,” said Astrid.

  “I fear our neighboring crown would not be pleased,” said Athos. “But he’ll stay for a drink. Won’t you, Master Kell?” Kell felt himself nodding slowly, and Athos’s smile spread, teeth glinting like knifepoints. “Splendid.” He snapped his fingers and a servant appeared, turning his dead eyes up to his master. “A chair,” ordered Athos, and the servant fetched one and set it behind Kell’s knees before retreating, quiet as a ghost.

  “Sit,” commanded Athos.

  Kell did not. He watched the king ascend the dais and approach the table between the thrones. On it sat a decanter of golden liquid and two empty glass goblets. Athos lifted one of the glasses, but did not pour from the decanter. Instead, he turned toward Holland.

  “Come here.”

  The other Antari had retreated to the far wall, fading into it despite the near black of his hair and the true black of his eye. Now he came forward with his slow and silent steps. When he reached Athos, the king held out the empty goblet and said, “Cut yourself.”

  Kell’s stomach turned. Holland’s fingers drifted for an instant toward the clasp at his shoulder before making their way to his exposed side of his half-cloak. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the tracery of his veins, but also a mess of scars. Antari healed faster than most. The cuts must have been deep.

  He drew a knife from his belt and raised arm and blade both over the goblet.

  “Your Majesty,” said Kell hastily. “I have no taste for blood. Could I trouble you for something else?”

  “Of course,” said Athos lightly. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  Kell was halfway through a shaky sigh of relief when Athos turned back to Holland, who’d begun to lower his arm. The king frowned. “I thought I said cut.”

  Kell cringed as Holland raised his arm over the goblet and drew the knife across his skin. The cut was shallow, a graze, just deep enough to draw blood. It welled and spilled in a thin ribbon into the glass.

  Athos smiled and held Holland’s gaze. “We haven’t got all night,” he said. “Press down harder.”

  Holland’s jaw clenched, but he did as he was told. The knife bit into his arm, deep, and the blood flowed, a rich dark red, into the glass. When the goblet was full, Athos passed it to his sister and ran a finger along Holland’s cheek.

  “Go clean up,” he said softly, gently, the way a parent would to a child. Holland withdrew, and Kell realized that he’d not only taken his seat, but was now gripping the arms of his chair with whitening knuckles. He forced his fingers free as Athos plucked the second glass from the table and poured the pale gold liquid into it.

  He held it up for Kell to see, then drank to show the glass and contents alike were safe before pouring a new measure and offering it to Kell. The gesture of a man used to sabotage.

  Kell took the glass and drank too fast and too deep in an effort to calm his nerves. As soon as the goblet was empty, Athos filled it again. The drink itself was light and sweet and strong, and went down easily. Meanwhile, the Danes shared their cup, Holland’s blood turning their lips a vibrant red as they drank. Power lies in the blood, thought Kell as his own began to warm.

  “It’s amazing,” he said, forcing himself to drink his second portion slower than his first.

  “What is?” asked Athos, sinking into his throne.

  Kell nodded at the goblet of Holland’s blood. “That you manage to keep your clothes so white.” He finished his second glass, and Astrid laughed and poured him a third.

  V

  Kell should have stopped at one drink.

  Or two.

  He thought he’d stopped at three, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He hadn’t felt the full effects of the drink until he’d gotten to his feet, and the white stone floor had tilted dangerously beneath him. Kell knew that it was foolish, drinking as much as he had, but the sight of Holland’s blood had rattled him. He couldn’t get the Antari’s expression out of his mind, the look that crossed his face just before the knife bit down. Holland’s visage was a perpetual mask of menacing calm, but just for an instant it had cracked. And Kell had done nothing. Had not pleaded—or even pressed—for Athos to yield. It wouldn’t have done any good, but still. They were both Antari. Luck alone cast Holland here in ruthless White and Kell in vibrant Red. What if their fortunes had been reversed?

  Kell took a shaky breath, the air fogging before his lips. The cold was doing little to clear his head, but he knew he couldn’t go home, not yet, not like this, so he made his wandering way through the streets of White London.

  This, too, was foolish. Reckless. He was always being reckless.

  Why? he thought, suddenly angry at himself. Why did he always do this? Step out of safety and into shadow, into risk, into danger? Why? he heard Rhy begging on the roof that night.

  He didn’t know. He wished he did, but he didn’t. All he knew was that he wanted to stop. The anger bled away, leaving something warm and steady. Or maybe that was the drink.

  It had been a good drink, whatever it was. A strong drink. But not the kind of strong that made you weak. No, no, the kind of strong that made you strong. That made your blood sing. That made … Kell tipped his chin to look at the sky, and nearly lost his balance.

  He needed to focus.

  He was fairly sure he was heading in the general direction of the river. The air was biting against his lips, and it was getting dark—when had the sun gone down?—and in the dregs of light, the city was starting to stir around him. Silence cracking into noise.

  “Pretty thing,” whispered an old woman from a doorway in Maktahn. “Pretty skin. Pretty bones.”

  “This way, Master,” called another.

  “Come inside.”

  “Rest your feet.”

  “Rest your bones.”

  “Pretty bones.”

  “Pretty blood.”

  “Drink your magic.”

  “Eat your life.”

  “Come inside.”

  Kell tried to focus, but he couldn’t seem to hold his thoughts together. As soon as he managed to gather a few, a breeze would blow through his head and scatter them, leaving him dazed and a little dizzy. Danger prickled at the edge of his senses. He closed his eyes, but every time he did, he saw Holland’s blood running into the glass, so he forced them open and looked up.

  He hadn’t meant to head for the tavern. His feet had set out on their own. His body had made its way. Now he found himself staring at the sign over the door of the Scorched Bone.

  Despite being a fixed point, the tavern in White London didn’t feel like the others. It still pulled at him, but the air smelled like blood as well as ash, and the street stones were cold beneath his boots. They tugged at his warmth. His power. His feet tried to carry him forward, but he willed them to stay.

  Go home, thought Kell.

  Rhy was right. Nothing good could come of these deals. Nothing good enough. It wasn’t worth it. The baubles he traded for, they brought him no peace. It was just a silly game. And it was time to stop.

  He held on to that thought as he drew the knife from its holster and brought it to his forearm.

  “It’s you,” came a voice behind him.

  Kell turned, the blade sliding back to his side.

  A woman stood there at the mouth of the alley, her face hidden by the hood of a threadbare blue cloak. If they’d been in any other London, the blue might have been the color of sapphires or the sea. Here it was the faintest shade, like the sky through layers and layer
s of clouds.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, squinting into the dark.

  She shook her head. “But I know you, Antari.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said with a fair amount of certainty.

  “I know what you do. When you’re not at the castle.”

  Kell shook his head. “I am not making deals tonight.”

  “Please,” she said, and he realized that she was clutching an envelope. “I don’t want you to bring me anything.” She held out the letter. “I only want you take it.”

  Kell’s brow crinkled. A letter? The worlds had been sealed off from one another for centuries. Who could she be writing to?

  “My family,” said the woman, reading the question in his eyes. “Ages ago, when Black London fell, and the doors were sealed, we were divided. Over the centuries our families have tried to keep the thread … but I’m the only one left. Everyone here is dead but myself, and everyone there is dead but one. Olivar. He’s the only family I have and he’s on that side of the door and he’s dying and I just want …” She brought the letter to her chest. “We are all that’s left.”

  Kell’s head was still swimming. “How did you even hear,” he asked, “that Olivar was ill?”

  “The other Antari,” she explained, glancing around as if she feared someone would hear. “Holland. He brought me a letter.”

  Kell couldn’t picture Holland deigning to smuggle anything between Londons, let alone correspondences between commoners.

  “He didn’t want to,” added the woman. “Olivar gave him everything he had to buy the letter’s passage and even then”—she brought her hand to her collar as if reaching for a necklace, and finding only skin—“I paid the rest.”

  Kell frowned. That seemed even less in Holland’s nature. Not that he was selfless, but Kell doubted that he was greedy in this way, doubted that he cared about that kind of payment. Then again, everyone had secrets, and Holland wore his so close that Kell was forced to wonder how much he truly knew of the Antari’s character.

  The woman thrust out the letter again. “Nijk shöst,” she said. “Please, Master Kell.”