Stain

by A. G. Howard

  She blinked. Her surroundings resolved to clarity. The prince was sprawled out, unmoving on the ground beside her. Drag marks pocked the mud, as if he’d been thrown from the bog and crawled over to her before collapsing. The shadows bowed in a circle around him.

  Stain swished them away and they drifted toward the crickets, expanding their radius yet refusing to leave—forming a ring around both her and the prince.

  She leaned in for a closer look, transfixed. Wet locks of plum-black hair covered his face, so thick only a glimpse of closed eyelids could be seen where his spiky lashes broke through. His sopping shirt, torn and singed to rags, revealed a trail of dark hair that started between his collarbones and faded to flaxen threads upon another metallic carapace. This one glimmered across his abdomen in the bog’s glow. Like his forearm, it was as if a layer of gilt had been painted across ripples of muscle, transforming him, bit by bit, to a statue. His finely cut chest, shoulders, arms, and face appeared even darker when juxtaposed against the sporadic plates of bright gold and hundreds of white, raised scars—ossified reminders of the pain he’d endured throughout his young life.

  His chest rose and fell, the rhythmic cadence of his heartbeat kicking beneath his sternum. Stain had seen other men’s torsos bared, but none of them so close to her age. None shared this man’s unique imperfections either, or suffered his debilitating curse.

  Curiosity overcame caution, and she lowered her hand, her fingers skimming that path of coarse hair along his chest, careful not to make contact with his flesh for fear of the effect it might have on her own. She paused atop his shining abdomen, where the hair yielded to stiff flaxen strands. These clutched at her fingertips like thistles. Radiant light seeped up each strand and into her fingers. Stinging pinpricks spread all the way into her knuckles. There on his forearm, her imprint still remained. She considered trying to help him . . . wondered if the resulting agony would be worth it. What would happen if she attempted to draw all the sunlight from his body and grow a thousand flowers in this ravine? Would it kill her?

  Scorch would insist she not even try, that royalty wasn’t worth it. Perhaps he was right. This man had endangered Crony, and possibly Luce—intentional or not.

  The prince’s eyelashes twitched, as if he could sense her mental debate and the brazen inquiry of his body.

  She jerked her hand back, her face warming.

  Scorch . . .

  His name had niggled on an afterthought, but now it punctured like a knife, leaving her exposed to the quiet stillness.

  Stain leapt to her feet and looked across the shadow guards, seeing nothing more than brambles. The flowers had either all been burned away by the explosion or were aglow with embers that would soon snuff out.

  The prince was here, so where was the Pegasus? Her stomach tightened anxiously. Taking a step, she dislodged something beside the prince’s limp hand and crouched to pick it up. His dagger, or what was left of it. The handle gave way to a stubby shank, melted by voltaic blood.

  Scorch’s blood.

  That blade-sharp awareness hacked at her heart, robbing her of breath. Stain scrabbled toward the marshy banks. The shadows tightened their barricade, but she fought against the gusts—leaning into them in an effort to break free.

  Fingers cinched around her boot from behind. Even through the leather, they were fire-hot and strong. She nearly tripped adjusting her stance. She glared over her shoulder as the prince groaned and rolled closer.

  “Wait,” he murmured so low she struggled to hear.

  Growling, she kicked at him while screaming with her hands. You stabbed him and left him to drown! She lunged toward the swampy pit.

  He sat up with some effort, hand gripping her torn pant leg to secure a tighter hold. “No.” The word came out in a rumbling moan, as if he was trying to remember how to talk. An odd glow lit his dark eyes, almost like a spark. “There’ll be no wrapping yourself in brambles to swim those depths again.”

  Stain cocked her head. How did he know she planned to do that? That she’d ever done it? The huskiness of his command reminded her of Scorch’s voice, making her more desperate. I have to go after him! her fingers shouted.

  “Absolutely not. Once in a lifetime is enough.” His words came stronger now, gathering momentum. “Twice could kill you. I know of what I speak.” He winced and grabbed his chest with his free hand.

  Twice could kill you? What was he talking about? She didn’t care. She had admired his strong heartbeat only minutes earlier. Now, she wanted to rip out the source of his life’s blood. You know nothing! she signed.

  “I know you won’t find him.” He let her go and stood, towering over her as he took deep, measured breaths. She was trapped—between him and the shadows there was no clear path to the bog. His muscles spasmed beneath his shredded shirt as his hands fisted and released; he seemed preoccupied with the movements, lifting his arms and studying his fingers in the soft light. The shreds of his shirt flapped open, and a golden flutter crept along his sternum like veins of gilt. He turned away before she could make sense of it. His back faced her as he observed the drag marks from his body leading out from the muck.

  The shadows no longer obstructed the view of the bog’s surface. They hovered around her and the prince, as if unsure who to defend or who to block. The crickets took up chirping again, their song even more riotous and chaotic than before.

  Stain shoved the prince to get his attention. He turned—those sculpted cheekbones scrunched somewhere between bewilderment and disbelief.

  I would sense if he was gone. Her hands yelled at him, though her eyes prickled. She cursed the tears that refused to break free. My heart would know. Now move! She jabbed a shoulder into his chest. The golden plate at his abdomen thrummed aloud, but he didn’t waver; he seemed stronger now than when she’d bettered him earlier today, which was contradictory to the way he kept wincing as though hurting.

  “I didn’t say . . . he was gone.” His features settled to pained resolve.

  She darted around him, determined to dredge the depths of the bog however long it took. To bring Scorch back.

  Vesper caught her around the waist and spun her. He dropped to the ground, dragging her with him. She landed on her knees beside him, their faces level.

  “Do you know what I am?” he asked—breathless, as if unsure himself.

  I know what you’re not. A noble prince. Her hands accused, stirred to a frenzy by worry over her loved ones and the danger he’d put them in.

  “I’m a man,” he said, again preoccupied with his hands and arms.

  You’re a murderer. And you should be the one drowning! She lashed out with her fists.

  As if anticipating her reaction, he caught a wrist in each hand, keeping her shirt cuffs between his flesh and hers. The flickering intensity returned behind his eyes as he squeezed his fingers, testing their strength.

  “Do you feel that?” he whispered. “I’m touching you.”

  Stain’s throat dried, for there was no question what she felt. A feverish heat burned through the cloth on contact, different than the intrusion of his golden plague. A heat that made the rest of her cold and desolate; every nerve beneath her skin became a field of dormant seeds, aching for a sip of that warmth so they could bloom to life.

  Bewildered by her body’s reactions, she shoved against him, hard. He retained his hold on her while trying to stay balanced, but the momentum of her push landed him on his back and dragged her across him. She pounded his chest, rage rising for all he’d done to her loved ones. He pinned her wrists where his shirt bunched in wrinkles between them, as if to stop the onslaught. Her breath caught at the smoldering sensation of their skin almost touching, at soft curves yielding to hard angles and planes.

  He lifted his head, his mouth at her ear. “Show me how fierce you are, tiny trifling thing,” he mumbled, low and raspy. “I predict, this time, you can convince me to let you win.”

  She stilled. Every muscle—held coiled and ready to spring—we
nt supple beneath those lips hovering along her lobe, beneath those intimate words he had no business knowing, beneath a scent that couldn’t belong to any man: feathers, singed grass, and sweet clover.

  She propped on her elbows to study his face. He studied her features in turn, enthralled—an arrested expression, as if he were the one floating atop waves of incredulity. Then he smiled in wonder, a stunning flash of white teeth amidst the blur of stubble darkening his jaw.

  What did you call me? Perched on her elbows, she couldn’t sign. So she asked the question with her thoughts, never expecting an answer.

  Tiny trifling thing. The answer tapped her mind, though the prince’s lips didn’t move.

  She strained to look over her shoulder. Scorch! He had to be here. It was his voice reaching out. But from where?

  The prince squeezed her wrists. I’m here beneath you, Stain.

  Her attention snapped back to the prince. He didn’t know her name. She’d tried to tell him earlier, but he’d misunderstood . . .

  It’s me. Look as an animal would, with your heart and not your eyes.

  She scrambled to sit up, resisting the urge to run her fingers through that tangle of dark hair spread out behind his head like a horse’s mane, to test if she knew its texture. Those thick, wavy strands seemed out of place, framing a human face both strange yet familiar. It was as if she’d seen him every day without realizing, in the elegant curves of Scorch’s silhouette trotting through the tree trunks, in the imprint on her vision when lightning flashed through broken leaves and she closed her eyes to retain Scorch’s winged profile of shadow and cinders on the back of her lids.

  The prince reached up to sweep his knuckles across the shorn hair at her temple, still avoiding her bared skin, as though worried he’d infect her again with sunlight. I know you by your voice . . . just as she said I would.

  Stain tilted her head out of his reach. She, who?

  His hand still hung midair. He seemed reluctant to drop it, so it stayed there, waiting for another touch. Do you realize how long it’s been? Since I’ve been able to speak from one mind to another? Five years. Yet it wasn’t, was it? For the part of me I thought I’d lost was here all along, with you, having silent conversations. Arguments . . . debates. Sharing secrets, adventures, and laughter.

  No, only Scorch talks to me like this. It’s only been Scorch! She slapped his hand aside and backed up more, grasping at any logical threads to weave into an explanation. Had he absorbed the Pegasus’s memories somehow when they fought in the bog? Did the moonglow beneath the murk have something to do with these inconceivable circumstances?

  The prince sat up and cupped her knee, not allowing her to escape. “I am Scorch.” Sincerity tugged at his regal features—his dark brows heavy with that same weighted somberness he’d used when discussing his role in the prophecy with his sister. He believed what he said was true.

  No. It’s impossible . . .

  His exasperated huff reminded her of the Pegasus—of all the times she’d act “too human” and he’d snort in frustration. “If it’s impossible, then how do I know that your nose wrinkles just like that each time you concentrate?”

  She patted the bridge of her nose, feeling the crinkled skin for herself.

  “And how do I know that when you look within Crony’s enchanted mirror, you see your true self. A girl . . . with long, silken hair and no scars.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  He paused, frowning. His fingers brushed at the rags of his shirt, as if he felt something crawling there. He bit back a growl. “How do I know that you long for sweet words and sincere emotions, and that you weep without tears each time it rains outside because you’re unable to escape this prison and run through the open skies?” A cough interrupted his extraordinary observations. He cringed, but continued. “How do I know you saved my life in this very bog when you were already bleeding and broken? That in your darkest moment, when you’d lost yourself, you found me.”

  Her eyes swelled, burdensome and scratchy, filled with cruel sand. She picked up the melted knife and offered the only explanation she had. You killed him, trying to defend yourself. The admission sliced into her bones. A body-wrenching sob tore from her chest. You absorbed his spirit. The bog must be enchanted.

  The prince’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “I didn’t kill him. I conquered him.” His newfound strength seemed to be waning; he suddenly looked tired. “I am him . . . your beastly brawn that you waltzed with in the embers, that you fed from your hand. I’ve been him all along. Or he’s been me. I can explain—”

  A dog’s bark at the thicket’s opening interrupted.

  “Prince Vesper! Majesty!” Several concerned voices called, followed by the nicker of horses. Stain choked on a startled breath as the cocker spaniel bounded in. Twigs snapped beneath the dog’s paws on its journey through the brambles.

  Knowing the prince’s entourage would be close behind, Stain dropped the knife and clambered to her feet.

  The prince tried to stop her but fell to his knees and gripped his chest. “Wait . . .” he groaned.

  She wanted to wait, but all her bravery, all her fierceness, was sunken with Scorch’s corpse in the bottom of the bog.

  We’ll sort this out. The prince used Scorch’s inner voice again, tearing through her mind like a stampede of hooves, leaving ragged imprints on her heart. Stay with me . . . please.

  Too many thoughts surged inside her. One rose above the fray, but instead of buoying her, it dragged her down.

  Her dearest friend was gone, his essence somehow locked within a beautiful prince who belonged to two kingdoms, a princess, and a prophecy she had no place in. She couldn’t stay . . . couldn’t belong with him now. All that was left was to get her family back—someone with whom to stand, someone with whom to hold hands as the sun and moon came together when the prince married his songbird bride and tore Stain’s heart in twain.

  She held his gaze, seeing Scorch look back from those anguished, fire-lit eyes. It was too much. Her crickets and shadows had retreated already, taking shelter in the saddlebag free of broken glass—hidden safely alongside the princess’s priceless gifts. Spinning, Stain grabbed the strap before making her escape, desperate to keep and protect the only companions still within her reach.

  The prince’s fading pleas pounded both her mind and ears, but she didn’t turn back. Instead, she took a hidden pathway. She retraced the trampled vines left by a Pegasus five years earlier as he thrashed his way out of these brambles, victorious in his freedom—a freedom won at the scarred hands of a nameless little child no bigger than a speck of dust. Which was exactly how small and inadequate she felt right now as each painful step carried her farther into the empty unknown.

  Part III

  In Which the Rose

  Becomes the Thorn

  21

  Invasion, Bitter and Entrancing

  The trees, black as pitch and stooped like withered old giants, waited to greet Stain when she plunged out of the bramble thicket. She was careful not to be seen by the prince’s entourage as she traded muck for ash. A masculine wail ruptured the stillness, punctured her eardrums and heart with the precision of a lance, and stopped her in her tracks.

  It was Scorch . . . no, Vesper. Somehow, the two were entwined and unreachable to her. Another agonized wail resounded, and the prince’s plea pounded through her: Stay with me . . . please. Her hands clutched a tree limb, forcing her legs to stand still when all they wanted was to run to him and help.

  When another cry rung out, she put one foot forward but stalled as a banshee’s screech overrode the echo. Up above, the monstrous one-eyed crow skimmed along the canopy like a ghostly vision. Stain ducked behind the trunk. She clutched the saddlebag, convinced the bird was seeking her for her thievery. Once it descended and disappeared into the other side of the brambles, she relaxed, relieved more for Vesper than herself. His already cursed body seemed to be reacting to Scorch’s invasion. The odd, enchanted crow could help him i
n ways Stain never could. Soon he would be riding beside his entourage—with Scorch nestled quietly in his mind—to meet his princess. He would leave all the horrors of the ravine behind and embrace the extraordinary destiny for which he was born.

  Stain swallowed against that growingly familiar taste on her tongue . . . the vinegary brine of envy. It burned now, more acidic, thinking of how so much that once belonged to her was being claimed by Eldoria’s castle.

  She stood wearily and made her way through the trees. Though she’d seen this view for as much as she could remember of her life, it looked foreign now. The thick, leafy canopies seemed to curl inward as if to chew her up.

  It made her dizzy to look at them, so she dropped her gaze. She wandered in a fugue, her mind as hazy as the powdery terrain she stirred with each plodding footstep.

  Despite the ash’s stench of decay, her stomach cramped, hunger tunneling its claws deeper, another hollow she needed to fill. She had the skill to forage for food, but was too tired.

  The desolation of her walk confirmed the cessation course had begun. Everyone was sleeping. The forest was quiet—spreading its contagion of restfulness.

  Stain’s pace slowed. Luce haunted her thoughts. He and Crony had a code, and Stain hoped he’d kept to it, that he’d escaped when their precious companion was taken and was planning a way to save her.

  Stain didn’t expect that he’d wait for her help; he’d probably already left. With her frailties, she couldn’t make the trek to the castle under full exposure of the sun. Even wrapped in clothes, and even with it cloudy outside, her flesh would blister and broil as if she stood naked in a fire pit. She knew from experience that the balm protectant Crony made only worked on faint, muted light filtering through small holes in the canopy.

  If there was any way to get to the castle on her own, she’d take it.