Claiming the Prince: Book One

by Cora Avery

  He was falling and she was plunging after him, trying to catch hold, and failing

  His free hand groped at her, digging into the thin skin above her breasts. His eyes were open and clear, even as the blood vessels in them burst.

  A jolt passed through her, from his fingers into her chest. The forest around them disappeared.

  His inner storm ceased, as though they’d come into the eye of it.

  Free-fall stopped and she drifted, weightless, quiet, lost in some silent space that existed only between the two of them.

  In that dream-like place, Kaelan appeared before her. His hand pressed to her chest.

  “I wish we could fly one more time,” he said with a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching at his hand with both of hers.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but a gale shoved by, hooking him around the waist, ripping him away. Her shirt tore as his fingers were pulled from it.

  Back came the storm. Freezing rain slashed like swords, bleeding her. The wind pitched her up and out and over until she didn’t know where she was anymore. Lightning blinded and thunder deafened, and then . . .

  She was back in the forest.

  The storm had only happened inside. Her shirt hadn’t really torn, and yet, somewhere deep in her chest, she felt as if she’d been gouged. And that empty space seemed to be growing, as if an invisible creature were gnawing away at her with icy teeth.

  “That was foolish.”

  She gasped, refocusing on the living world, where Kaelan lay limp. His eyes were vacant and lightless, body sprawled in a damp hemlock forest on a small island in the gulf.

  Dead.

  “You should’ve told me you didn’t kill the Elf,” Damion snarled down at Magda, who was too busy prodding at her chest to check for a wound to respond. Other than sweat and dirt and tacky old blood from the battle, and the edge of the Enneahedron still between her breasts, there was nothing, no wound. But that’s not how it felt.

  Ilene crouched on the other side of Kaelan’s body, her green eyes flashing, giving Magda a vicious smile.

  “He gave you a piece of his heart before he died,” the Elf said. “Now you will always feel it, missing. Everyone knows you don’t make a living being your heart-place. I wonder what Endreas will think of that.”

  Gur growled.

  Damion stepped into view. Swords drawn.

  Magda gazed at Ilene blankly. “You have the same color eyes as him . . . Kaelan.”

  Ilene’s smile faltered.

  Magda laid Kaelan’s lifeless hand down on his chest and rose to her feet, unleashing her knives with a cold click and whish.

  “Go tell your father,” she said, “that I will be coming for him. And you can tell Endreas, there will be no peace.”

  Ilene sneered, her hands twitching as if she was thinking about drawing a weapon.

  Gur roared and the Elf flinched. And then she turned and ran, disappearing into the trees.

  “You shouldn’t have let her go,” Damion said.

  Magda drew back her daggers, touching her chest where the hollow ache continued to spread. What was this? She’d never felt anything like it, as though she was being consumed from the inside out. What had Kaelan done to her?

  Honey bounded back up the slope. “Oh no,” she said, hurrying to Kaelan’s side. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  Magda turned her back, choking as the empty ache reached her throat, closing around it like dead frozen fingers.

  “Yes, he is,” Damion stated. “Too bad you were off picking flowers or you might’ve been here . . . What are you doing?”

  Magda glanced over her shoulder. Honey’s mouth covered Kaelan’s.

  Magda spun on her heel and hurried away.

  “Mistress!” Damion called after her. “Where are you going?”

  Stumbling down the slope, she slammed to her knees by the stream's edge and plunged her face under the cool water, holding her head there until her lungs burned for air. When she came up, she was gasping, but at least she was breathing.

  “Still alive,” she told herself, as the air seared into her, “still alive.”

  She didn’t feel it though. Something was wrong. This wasn’t grief. This was something else—a parasite eating away at her, leaving nothing but a brittle shell. Everything else fell away, like he had.

  Clarity of purpose etched into the hard walls of her new hollow self. A man who would kill his own son out of fear of some prophecy was not fit to rule, was not fit to live.

  She would find the King. And she would kill him.

  Two bloody swords plunked to the soft soil beside her. Damion dropped to his knees, dunking his hands into the stream. Blood washed from his skin, swirling away in pink ribbons.

  “What is a heart-place?” he asked her.

  “I’m going to take the Crown,” she said to him in a flat voice.

  “And then?”

  “And then I’m going to kill the King.”

  “Glad you’re finally coming around,” he said.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Defeating Lavana now will be more difficult,” she said.

  “We don’t need to talk about this right now, coz,” he said, rinsing his face.

  “It makes no difference, Damion,” she said. “Now, tomorrow, a year from now. No difference.”

  “Well then,” he said. “Manticore venom is very rare. If we can extract it, we can sell it.”

  “And buy support at court.”

  “Now you’re thinking like a Rae.”

  “I’m out-of-shape. Fighting Lavana . . .” She shook her head.

  “There are other ways to get rid of a Rae,” Damion said, “if you have the means.”

  “Like what? Hiring an assassin? Manticore venom may be valuable, but—”

  “What about Endreas?”

  She tensed, straining, feeling like a rope frayed in the middle, about to be torn in two.

  “What about him?” she asked.

  “He saved you, Magda, didn’t he? And I heard him, he prefers you over Lavana. So maybe you can convince him to prove it.”

  The rope twisted. She clenched her hands to stop them from trembling. Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to see Endreas—to kiss him and touch him and drown in his scent. The thought alone stalled the glacial creep scouring her—this inexplicable all-consuming grief-madness that was eating away at her. She couldn’t think about Endreas like that, not when Kaelan was . . .

  The storm-pain resurged, wiping out the cold and Endreas and everything. She slammed her eyes shut against the onslaught of tears, the clash and roar of emotion tore back into her. Being numb and cold and empty had been so much better. She struggled to breathe, clutching at her chest, sure there must be blood pouring forth, great gushing torrents of it. But there wasn’t.

  “Magda?” Damion’s voice sounded far away through the melee.

  For the briefest of moments, she was back in the air, Kaelan anchoring her as they broke the clouds.

  But she ripped away from the memory, coming back to herself, trembling uncontrollably and sobbing.

  And then a soft humming came to her.

  “Oh, shit,” Damion muttered.

  Honey crouched by the stream on Magda’s other side, filling a gourd with water, golden hair trailing down to the ground, smiling.

  Lunging, she seized Honey’s arms and shook her. “Stop.”

  Honey stared up at her with big, innocent puppy eyes.

  “Magda . . .” Damion said from behind her.

  She released the nymph. “Just stop.”

  Honey tilted her head. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Magda almost laughed. Every part of her hurt, all the way down to the marrow. Honey was supposed to be the one feeling like this—grieving—so why was it Magda?

  “No,” Magda said, her tongue salted by the tears flowing over her lips. “Everything’s fine. You’re perfectly fine.”

  Honey smiled widely
and it was like a ghast blade straight into Magda’s soul. Another person she had failed to protect.

  She pushed up to her feet, wiping her face with her sleeve, though the tears continued to pour. “We have to leave as soon as we can.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about the venom,” Damion said, taking up his swords and rising. “And . . . the body?”

  “What body?” Honey asked.

  Magda swiped more tears from her cheeks with her fingers, ignoring Honey’s question. Ouda had obviously damaged Honey much more deeply than Magda had realized to make her so oblivious.

  “I don’t know.” She turned to Honey. “What do imps do with their dead?”

  Honey twirled her hair around her finger. “You know, I never asked.”

  “We’ll bury him,” Damion said softly, “as is our way. He was one of us.”

  “We have no way to dig,” she said.

  “What about the semargl?” Damion asked. “Think he could manage it?”

  “I’ll ask him,” she said.

  Damion placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s not just because he was a Prince,” she said, voice snagging in her throat, vision blurred, heart aching.

  “REST A WHILE.” Damion gave her shoulder a squeeze and then started up the slope.

  “Here,” Honey said, trotting over to him and giving him the gourd. “Take this with you.”

  He gave Magda an apologetic look and then headed upwards again.

  She hung there, feeling as though she might just drop to the ground and never get up, but Honey drifted closer, humming again.

  “Oh look, more came,” she said, reaching down and plucking a clutch of delicate white flowers from the edge of the water, roots and all. She waved them at Magda, bright-eyed. “Better not let these go to waste.”

  Magda did her best to focus through the tumult. Raging at Honey wouldn’t do them any good. It wasn’t the nymph’s fault she was like this now—so vacant. At the moment, Magda was envious.

  “No, better not,” Magda murmured.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to call them,” Honey said, hips continuing to sway. “I’ve only seen them once, when I was very young. An asp caught one of my sisters in the ankle when she was picking apples. We’d never had asps in our forest before, but Ouda said . . .” Honey’s eyes darkened, her swaying stopped, and for the briefest of moments, she looked like her old self again. But then she shook her head and her hips began to rock once more. “Nettle knew. She’s quite old. She says the gods showed her, but none of us believed that. I mean, she’s old, but not that old. But she called it up,”—Honey waved the lacey white flowers—“and it came. It’s really so . . . plain, isn’t it? I mean, not the showiest of flowers at all. And to think that it can—”

  “Magda!” Damion stumbled back into view.

  Her tears dried up in an instant. She darted up the hillside, unleashing her daggers, fearful Ilene had returned. But Damion hadn’t drawn his swords. He simply stood there, his face pale. She retracted her daggers as she crested the slope.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “The venom didn’t—”

  Damion gripped her arm. “Look.”

  She frowned, scanning the scene.

  Gur licked blood from his fur again, tail beating the ground. The corpses of two manticores lay amid blood-soaked earth, broken branches, and scarred trunks. Hero curled up on Kaelan, who was propped up against a tree—

  She wasn’t sure how long she stood there staring into his eyes before she realized that he was actually staring back.

  Honey appeared next to her at some point.

  “Panchress,” she said, shaking the white flower under Magda’s nose. The scent was light, powdery. “The Sun Goddess’s healing flower.”

  “Careful with that,” Damion snapped at her. “Do you realize how valuable that flower is? I mean, it . . .”

  Kaelan blinked, his chest heaving.

  Magda’s legs moved of their own accord, lifting over logs and roots, skirting the cold weight of a manticore corpse, until they folded and she dropped next to him. Through slitted eyes, still flooded red by suffocation, he watched her.

  She touched his chest.

  Warm.

  A thump. And then . . . two more in rapid succession.

  His hand, slow, weak, covered hers.

  Honey skipped over and settled down, pristine white gown puffing around her. “You see?” she said. “I brought him back.”

  Magda snatched her hand away. The thump continued to echo in her palm, up her arm, into her chest, filling in the hole and stalling the creeping chill that had been invading her.

  Honey wrapped her arms around Kaelan’s neck, kissing his cheek.

  He blinked, wincing at Honey’s touch.

  Damion joined them. “You were dead.”

  Kaelan opened his mouth. A strangled grunt was all that came out.

  “The water,” Honey said.

  Damion handed it over. Honey poured it into Kaelan’s mouth, dabbing what dribbled down his chin with her trailing sleeve.

  As he swallowed, his eyes slid shut. Magda’s breath held, as if not expecting them to open again, but they did, and refocused on her.

  “I . . . fell,” he said to her.

  And you took me with you, you son of a bitch, she wanted to scream, and then knock him flat on his ass. Instead, her hands bunched in her lap, her teeth grinding.

  “It will take a little time,” Honey reported, stroking his hair. “But he’ll be healed completely soon. Like nothing happened.”

  Magda surged up to her feet. The grieving chill had been replaced with furious burning.

  “Let’s figure out how to get the venom,” she said to Damion. “I want to be gone before midday. Where’s the third manticore?”

  “By the camp,” Damion said.

  “Let’s go.” She strode towards the stream, not looking back.

  Blood spattered everything.

  “Looks like some battle,” she said, stepping around the prostrate body of the manticore, which had too many wounds to count.

  Damion lifted his spoon from the bowl left by the campfire, frowning. “I need to wash this,” he said and started back towards the stream.

  “Aren’t you going to help me?” she asked, gesturing to the scaled tail of the creature.

  “I’d say the venom’s in the stinger. Cut it off,” he said. “I still haven’t cleaned my swords either. Besides, I really don’t want to be here when you . . .”

  Her eyes narrowed. “When I what?”

  He took a step back. “I’ll just go wash my spoon.” He hustled away.

  She scowled after him and then hunkered down and started to cut away the tip of the stinger. Once she’d sawed it off, she packed leaves around the tip, tying them with a bit of the rope that Damion had left in a slender coil by his kit. She salvaged one of the trampled and blood-spattered blankets to wrap it in. All told, it was the size of a healthy baby. She wasn’t sure if they’d be able to bring the others—if it was wise or worthwhile or even feasible.

  Plucking up one of the water gourds that had been kicked off near the trees, she tipped the trickle of remaining water into her throat. Light slanted down, shining bright on the destroyed campsite and the sundered flesh of the manticore—black and red and purple.

  Her stomach lurched into her throat when she focused on it. She leaned against a tree, catching her breath. Killing had never bothered her in the past, the sight of gore and blood . . . never from battle anyway. Only when she’d seen meat eaten had it knotted her up inside, but she’d been too sheltered from the carnage all these years.

  How was she ever going to survive, let alone triumph, when her strength kept rising and falling like this? One moment she felt as though she could conquer the world, and the next, she could barely keep her legs upright.

  “Magda?”

  She flinched, pushing away from the tree.

  Kaelan stopped in the midst of the battle-broken camp, n
ot coming any closer.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She laughed, a humorless huffing sound. “Am I all right? You’re the one who was dead.”

  The red had started to fade from his eyes, the discoloration of his skin too. He moved closer, slowly.

  Her teeth scraped over her lip as he approached. When he came close enough to touch, she skirted away from him, back towards the camp. He stopped again.

  “Magda, listen . . .”

  “Where’s Honey?” she asked, glancing towards the stream. “And Anqa? I haven’t seen her since the battle.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “We can’t stay here much longer. Who knows what kind of creatures will be drawn to all this blood,” she said. “Are you strong enough to leave?”

  “I think so, but—”

  She gathered up the ends of the blanket with the stinger inside. “Does Honey still have some of the panchress—?”

  “Magda!”

  She froze, clenched.

  He closed the distance between them more quickly. By the time he reached her, sweat beaded on his face and his breath was ragged, as if he’d run miles instead of walked a few feet.

  “I don’t know what I did,” he said, “but I’m sorry.”

  Her throat ached, tears prickling across the surface of her eyes. If she spoke, she was afraid the tears would start to fall again. She began to turn away, but he sidestepped into her path.

  “I died,” he said.

  She kept her gaze trained on the trees on the other side of the stream. “It’s a good thing Honey was here or else you’d still be dead.”

  His hand moved up as if to touch her, but she stepped back.

  He frowned. “Are you angry?”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her fingers brushed her chest. The cold hollowness was gone, yet a bruised tenderness remained. “Do you know what a heart-place is, Kaelan?”

  His frown deepened. “No. What?”

  How could she explain? She only knew what Endreas had told her and what Ilene had said. It never would’ve occurred to her that a person could be made into a heart-place, but the aching wound within told her Kaelan had done just that. And even though he hadn’t done it on purpose—how could he have when he didn't even know what one was?—it still felt like a violation. Because losing him . . . it hadn’t simply hurt, it had killed a part of her too. He had connected himself to her somehow, given her a piece of himself and then ripped it away in the next moment. Just thinking about it brought a sob into her throat. If she had to go through that kind of loss again . . . she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to survive it.