Shadowed Lies (Soul of a Dragon Book 2)

by Clara Hartley

  “Nanili, what is that?” she asked, never having seen the object before.

  “An incense burner.”

  “Why is it there?”

  “Marzia put it there.”

  “For what?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Where is she now? Is she back after collecting her things?”

  “She is. She’s writing outside in the living room.”

  “Writing?”

  Constance got up and meandered through the house to find Marzia. The hallways were still dark. It had to be still dark outside. The temperature of her home was chillier that usual— That’s right, Rayse usually lit the fireplace. Without him around, things were colder.

  Marzia was sitting on a couch, smiling and giggling as she scribbled away on what looked like a brown sheet of paper.

  Next to her stood another mishram. Another one? Nanili was already too much for Constance.

  “Marzia, who is that?” she asked.

  Marzia’s head whipped up. She brushed her quill and paper under a pillow, away from Constance’s sight. “Oh. Uh, my mishram. Wynn.”

  “You have one?” Constance contemplated ways to send it away, but Marzia would probably just look at her funny. Why have one servant when you could have two?

  Marzia smiled. “Fraser’s ranked highly enough to receive one.”

  “I see. What were you writing about?”

  Marzia scratched the back of her head and dodged Constance’s gaze. “This book I read. It’s interesting, honestly. Making some notes about it, you see.”

  Notes? In all her years, Constance had never seen Marzia write notes about her books. Something about how Marzia acted smelled an awful lot like rotten fish.

  “Why did you put that incense burner in my room?”

  An edginess prickled off Marzia in waves. “Oh, that thing. It’s… I thought it would be good for you. You know, to soothe your nerves and all. It smells nice, doesn’t it? It’s lavender-scented. I think it might be good for your pregnancy.”

  “You think?”

  “Um, no. Honestly, I’m utterly convinced it’ll be good for you. Do you like it? I had much thought over giving it to you…”

  Constance wasn’t sure if Marzia’s fidgeting and awkward demeanor was due to her shyness. “I won’t lie. It is soothing. Perhaps I should bring it to the clinic. It might help with the patients.” She smiled, hoping to calm her friend.

  Marzia’s eyes widened. “No!”

  Constance tilted her head. “No?”

  “It’s special. I want you to have it. Just you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s… It-it’s…” Marzia stuttered. “Fraser gave it to me.”

  Constance’s lips parted in shock. “I can’t take it if it was a gift from him.” To the redhead, the strange metal object would be a treasure from her missing mate. To Constance, the incense burner would be just a meaningless item. “It’s your memento. I don’t deserve it.”

  “He’ll be back. I don’t need that to remember him.”

  “It’s wasted on me.”

  “He’s given me plenty of things. Honestly, I can live with one less. Take it. I don’t have much to show you my gratitude.” Marzia’s eyes darted to the pillow she had left her quill under. “I just know he’ll be back soon.”

  Constance wrapped her hands around Marzia’s. “I’m so proud of you for being so strong.”

  “I’m not being strong.” A strange expression washed over Marzia’s face. Constance couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but that look did not resonate with her.

  “Of course you are. I can tell you’re still pushing on.”

  Tears welled in her friend’s eyes. Marzia hugged her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Being such a bother.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re not. Rayse is…” Constance paused when she thought about him. She still couldn’t forget the way he had walked off this morning. Would he be back tonight? Or would she have to sleep alone in a cold bed? “Rayse might not be here so often because of some things he has to attend to. It’s good to have company.”

  A hammering on the front door interrupted their conversation.

  “Nanili, go fetch it,” she said.

  She heard the tapping of boots on the floorboard. Soon, Nanili led a broad-shouldered, yellow-skinned male into Marzia’s room. He wore his long black hair in a braid—Shen. He was dressed in a tunic and the same leather equipment Rayse often strapped over his body when on duty.

  “Femriahl,” he said, bowing.

  “Shen,” she replied, studying him. He looked every inch as capable as Rayse of protecting her, but she would much prefer having her mate by her side. “Did Rayse order you here?”

  “He told me to watch over you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He is en route to Ocharia.”

  Her spirit sank. “It’s a two-day flight away. Why is he going there?”

  “The water witches are there. He’s trying to enlist their help in the investigations.”

  It didn’t sound like a bad idea. But it might have been more effective if he had taken her. She would learn a lot from the water witches, and being a magic user herself, she could communicate with them better. She fought back a sigh. She wanted to scream out the pain Rayse had caused by pushing her away. He had promised they were supposed to work through this together. His leaving made her question their bond.

  But it wasn’t real. It never had been… right?

  She’d started this all by using that spell.

  “When will he back?” she asked.

  “A week or two, perhaps. I’m to help run the clan in the meanwhile. He made sure to make his intentions clear to the other dragons, so they wouldn’t start an uprising.”

  “Two weeks?” She’d have to live with this pain for so long? They needed to sit down and have a long talk.

  Then maybe she could tell him about the baby, or would that plunge their relationship into obscurity?

  “It’ll fly by like the winds, milady. He’ll be back here soon enough.”

  Somehow, she doubted that.

  Chapter 8

  You again?” Constance said, watching Reorden stumble into the clinic with the fourth broken hand he’d suffered this week. “I’m going to have to start charging you rations for all this work I’m doing.”

  She tried to immerse herself in the scent of her herbs and medicine. Rayse had been gone for a few days. Those days had been clawing at the back of her mind, but she’d survive. She kept telling herself he would be back soon. And she had to tell him the truth when he returned. No more secrets. She couldn’t hide them forever…

  Reorden winced when he sat down. “Greta, would you mind? It fucking hurts.”

  “Greta’s busy,” Constance said. “I’ll take a look at that.”

  The teenager flinched.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’d prefer it if Greta looked at me instead.”

  “But I’m the one who usually tends to you.”

  “Maybe not this time?”

  “I don’t see what the difference is.”

  “News of Urick and Josiah has been rampant. And, um, everyone is aware of your involvement.” His eyes darted to the ground, and a redness washed over his face.

  “And you’re afraid I might do something to you?”

  He swallowed. “It’s nothing personal. My mother told me to try and avoid you, that’s all.”

  The clinic was warmer than usual today, and the mishram more numerous. She made a sour face and grabbed her tools. She forced his arm into her grasp. Ungrateful nitwit, she thought.

  “What are you doing?” Reorden asked.

  “My job.” She tugged more roughly than usual, and the young man let out a yelp. “I’ve seen you countless times. I can’t believe you have suspicions.”

  “Everyone in the clan—”

  “Can think what they like. I’m not hurting anyone. If
anything, I’m doing my best to stop the killings. So you can eat your doubts. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, healing as many people as I can.” She clicked his bones into place, and the boy howled. She washed his wound and dabbed it with medicine. She picked up a bandage and wrapped it without the same tenderness she usually used.

  Reorden scowled at her. “Stop that. It hurts.”

  She tied up his injury. “There. You’ll heal in an hour, as usual. No sutures needed this time.”

  “Why’d you have to be so rough?”

  “You survived, didn’t you?” The stress of everything was driving her mad. “I don’t want to see you again this week, and not just because I don’t want you injured anymore.”

  He ran his fingers down his arm. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “About?”

  “Doubting you.”

  She sighed. “You’re not the only one.” She needed Rayse back, but he was somewhere on the other side of Gaia, frolicking with witches of another kind. She hated him for his absence.

  “Did someone call for me, pumpkin?” Greta said. “I was sorting the herbs.”

  Constance stood up, sliding the stool against the floor, and moved toward the exit. “I’m taking a walk.”

  “What’s got her knickers in a bunch?” Greta asked Reorden. The teenager shrugged.

  Constance strode out into the empty expanse of the Everpeak mountains. A gust of wind hit her face and sent a shiver crawling through her. Dragon’s teats. She had left her coat in the clinic. She trod on in the cold. It made her feel something other than the stinging in her chest, and the deliriousness of how life was pulling her down.

  The rocks crunched beneath her feet, making a grating sound. The thin sleeves of her frock did little against the assaultive winds.

  There was activity in front of Dragon Keep, as always, with the groaning of shipments and the flapping of wings. A dragon male strode past her. His shoulder bumped against hers. She stumbled backward and winced from the force.

  “Excuse me,” she said with a harsh tone.

  He turned and spat at the ground.

  What was that? If Rayse were with her, this man wouldn’t dare even bat an eye at her. But her mate was gone, and she had to fend for herself.

  She looked up and spotted another man sharpening his blades. He was staring at her with a warning gaze. The scrape of metal against metal was drowned out by the whirring winds. She shivered and directed her gaze away. These people… they despised her; all because of rumors and nothing she’d done.

  The man got up and strode to her, dagger still in hand.

  She inched back, suddenly feeling the unsettling sensation of being stalked like prey.

  “Femriahl?” She spun around, exhaling a sharp breath. She readied a spell on her tongue, and felt for the souls in her beads.

  It was Shen. “I had to direct some orders to Rayse’s men earlier. Sorry that my attention was divided. Why are you wearing so little? Aren’t you cold?”

  She allowed her shoulders to relax, but shot a nervous look at the man who had been stalking her. “I’m just feeling out of it. Let’s go back in.”

  The man growled at her, then spun in a different direction.

  If Shen hadn’t arrived, would he have attacked?

  Constance’s understanding of black magic had morphed into something reasonably substantial. Her fingers slid over the browned, matted paper of her tome. The dust-ridden sensation and the vintage scent had been ingrained in her mind. She had spent hours in the last two weeks intently analyzing the contents of all the black magic books she had.

  And Rayse wasn’t back yet. At least not to her.

  Killings were still going on. Seven now. Seven wives killed, three men executed, and another four found dead at the scene, both husband and wife as pale as mishram. All the wives had the same strangling marks around their necks. Fear buzzed about the clan, especially amongst the dragons and dragon wives who had been mated.

  And they blamed her.

  When would her mate return to her? Not knowing was killing her insides bit by bit. She’d seen him through countless location spells. They didn’t compare with the real thing, but at least she knew he was still alive. And she was certain he had already returned from Ocharia days ago. He was still carrying out his duties in Dragon Keep, but had somehow avoided her entirely.

  Rayse, have you forgotten about me already?

  She ran her index finger across the line on her page. “Black magic can only be countered by more of the same,” she muttered.

  Shen stood next to the doorway, eyes alert, guarding her as usual.

  “If I’m going to beat this person,” she said, more to herself than to Shen, “I’m going to have to take away lives.”

  “Black magic?”

  “I don’t think I could.” The darkness lurked in her. She had to ignore it.

  She continued to scan the book. It read: Even dragons are no use to dark magic. Enalwya, one of the known first wielders of the power, has posited that because dragons are so unnaturally strong, they are a creation of the dark art. Soul magic works with the need of natural balance, but black magic is an exception to that rule. As dragons are immune to most restrictions of nature, Enalwya has suggested that the beasts themselves have to have been a product of black magic.

  She thumbed to the next page, letting the information seep into her mind.

  If Rayse couldn’t do anything about these murders, then the responsibility fell on her, but she could not protect the clan without losing her conscience. She would have to counter the black magic with more of its kind. She had never taken the life of another before, and she doubted she had the stomach to do so. There had always been some sadism in her.

  She stared at the dead critters piled in the corner of her study. She liked harvesting these souls. And if she did so with humans or dragons…

  She might fall off the deep end.

  Mishram, she had considered. They could speak. Would they be considered sentient beings? She’d learned she knew little of the creatures. Every mention of them in the books talked about them in passing. Not a single article gave information, or even questioned, the mishram’s origins, despite how integral they were to dragon life. The literature wrote them in as an afterthought most of the time.

  Would taking just the dull souls of the mishram be counted as murder? She didn’t think so. The grayish beings didn’t have any personalities. They existed as nothing more than mindless servants.

  But she still couldn’t do it. She didn’t want their souls mixing with hers. The thought made her insides churn.

  She looked upon Nanili, who stood next to the doorway, ever ready to take orders.

  Still looking at me with those eyes. But the mishram hadn’t done anything—yet.

  If things in the clan continued as the way they were, Constance wasn’t sure if she’d last another week. Shen wasn’t there with her all the time, and the death glares hadn’t stopped.

  She shifted and pulled out another volume of spells. A new one. She’d finally found what she needed. She remembered the rush of emotions she experienced when reading through the important information.

  She had located the spell used to create the deadly fog.

  Surgitia furmia. A simple spell. Easily spoken. But expensive. The book she’d found it in—an archaic-looking gem with pages upon pages of black magic spells—wasn’t even from the library. She attempted to commit most of them to memory, on the off chance she had to use them against a powerful magic user in the future.

  These spells were too powerful… No person or dragon should be able to wield them. Nature didn’t hold them in check, and free, limitless power often led to horrible consequences.

  Shen had given the tome to her a couple days ago. He didn’t say where it came from, but she could read his expression. Rayse had returned, or at least sent the book her way. Couldn’t he have at least left a message?

  Perhaps she had lost his heart and was gone forever.


  She palmed her belly. The baby could be gone by the time he returned.

  The smoke the surgitia furmia cast was supposed to be almost omnipotent. Nearly unstoppable, the fog swarmed its victims, cutting them apart. The only way to counteract it was another spell exactly like it. The two spells would cancel each other out.

  Problem was, she needed to kill someone to cast it.

  The book also went into deep detail about the nature of bonded souls.

  Bonded souls. The thought of harvesting them was revolting. Souls that had an affinity with each other—parent and child, lovers, the best of friends—were stronger because of their bond. When such souls were broken, especially through betrayal, their potency intensified tenfold.

  When she read about it, it all started to make sense. This witch or warlock, whoever that person was, was instigating those killings. Most likely, the four couples who had died together had been harvested by the perpetrator to fuel their spells.

  Seven killings so far. Equivalent to seventy sentient beings. Thinking about what that person could do with that power sent a chill through her blood.

  The dragon wife killings made sense, but what about Eduard? Why was he killed? If their enemy needed bonded souls, then why waste such a spell on him?

  Did this person have a vendetta with her? Why was she being targeted? She sifted through her memories to try and recall anyone she might have made an enemy out of in the past. She had come from a small village. No one there had the power to do such things.

  But she possibly could.

  If she had the potential for such destruction, why not another witch or warlock hiding in Evernbrook?

  She flipped to the very last page of the ancient book. Nothing related to surgitia furmia was written there, but something just as interesting lay on that page—information on how the dragon race was created. Enalwya, the scholar, had been right in her assumptions.

  Constance skimmed the words one more time. The ancient book was likely written by the witch who’d created dragons. How the water witches came across it, Constance didn’t know, but its information was invaluable. This book was likely the grimoire of the most powerful witch to have ever existed.