by K. E. Blaski
“No!” Jennica reached Damen first, pulled him out, and lifted him into her arms. Noble stumbled between her and the door, so she carried Damen back to the edge of the tower.
She cradled him in her lap, rocking him. Then the convulsions started. “Oh, please don’t leave me. You said you loved me. Please, please don’t die.” Damen’s eyes rolled back and she kissed his cheeks and his forehead, his lips and his chin, willing for some magic to take place. But he remained unresponsive, his face contorted in unimaginable pain.
Noble made it as far as the pillows before he fell flat on his back, writhing and bawling. Froth spewed from his mouth and stained the silken fabric. Jennica wanted him to suffer, and she wanted to watch it, but Noble’s agony meant the same pain for Damen.
“This was your plan? You didn’t have to do this to earn my trust Oh, why did you have to do this? ” She placed her hand on the dagger inside her robe. Could she end Damen’s suffering? Then end her own?
Damen gasped. “Marcis.” His eyes unexpectedly focused.
Marcis stood above them, a glowing blue sword poised above his head. He was here to kill her—with the sword that could do it.
Laying Damen’s head carefully in her lap, Jennica placed her hands at her sides and tilted her head toward Marcis.
“Go ahead,” she said to her friend. “I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to live on this world without him.”
Marcis’s face crumpled. “You have to transfer to Earth first. The moons. I have to wait for the moons.”
“Kill me now. I don’t want to steal somebody else’s body on Earth, either.” She reached up to grab the sword from Marcis, because the way he was looking at her, Jennica knew he couldn’t kill her—wouldn’t kill her. She’d impale herself if she had to. The Sword of Urion could pierce through her new metal skin right into her breaking heart.
“No, Marcis. Look.” Damen pressed his thumb against Jennica’s cheek, and in one quick downward stroke, he wiped silver paste from her skin. Marcis looked stunned, and fell to his knees before her. He smudged more of the paste from her face with the sleeve of his tunic.
“You’re not made of Urion! This is false?”
“No, Marcis. Most of me is covered in metal.” Jennica flattened his hand against her neck where the real silver began. “Evil metal all the way through my heart.”
“She lies,” Damen whispered. “It’s all paste . . . All . . . of it. No Urion . . . anywhere.”
To save her, Damen lied. Somehow he’d changed his Tovar nature.
She’d changed too. A hardness: not just covering her body but filling her up, coating her soul. Putting thoughts of vengeance and destruction into her head that both exhilarated and scared her. How could she live with her new self, navigating these new emotions, without Damen to keep her grounded?
“This changes everything.” Marcis’s gaze wavered between Damen and Jennica.
“Marcis. Do it. Please. Use the sword.” Marcis rose to his feet, the Sword of Urion glowing at his side.
From out of nowhere, the hawk sliced through the air, throwing its body weight against Marcis’s side. Knocked off his feet, Marcis’s limbs tangled beneath him as he fell to the floor. The sword flew from his grip and skidded across the stones and out of reach. The predator roared and descended again on Marcis, teeth gnashing, wings beating. Its claws ripped a gash in his side, and blood the color of florimel wine spilled from the wound. Marcis seized the beast’s head in his hands, squeezing its jaws, trying to push its snapping teeth away from his throat, but it kept lunging. His arms shook, his strength ebbing as more of his blood flowed.
Jennica set Damen on the ground. This was no time for self-pity. Marcis needed her. She couldn’t just give up, not when she’d come so far. She had to help him. On her hands and knees, she slid her dagger to Marcis. With any luck, he could hold off the hawk while she searched for the sword.
She didn’t have to look far. Noble sat up, wheezing and still very much alive. But blood dripped from his eyes and nose. He grimaced. He moaned.
In his shaky claws he gripped the Sword of Urion.
“You think I care you’re not Rosen, you whore? You think his stupid poison could kill me?” He waved the sword at her. “I’m healing already. I’ll heal before the transfer. Look at the moons.” They now seemed only inches away from each other. “I’m going to Earth—and it’s all because of you!”
Jennica pushed up to her feet. She wouldn’t cower to Noble. If she was going to die, it would be fighting this monster to her very last breath.
Another hawk descended, coming at Jennica’s face with its talons spread. She batted it away with her silver arm, but not before it nipped her ear and she felt the warmth of her own spraying blood. The creature dove upon her again, but this time she was ready. She yanked it out of the air by its feet and spun, flinging it at Noble. When it impaled on the Sword of Urion, it screamed—high and horrible. Noble struggled to get out from under the flailing hawk, and Jennica reached around with her forearm and snapped the cord holding the transfer stone from around Noble’s neck.
The black stone tumbled to the floor. Noble grabbed for it. Maybe the poison slowed him down, or maybe Jennica’s reflexes were faster now—but whatever it was, she got to it first. She snatched the stone and ran to the tower’s edge.
She slipped her own stone from around her neck and held them both in the palm of her hand. “Come and get them.” She extended her arm past the turret wall and let one of the stones drop. “Oops.” The other stone swayed from the cord looped through her fingers—bait.
Noble was rabid. Foam bubbled from his lips as he limped toward her, the Sword of Urion clutched in front of him, its tip wavering unsteadily. The sword screeched just within the range of her hearing, like metal claws on stone. The blade seemed to vibrate with electricity.
Jennica’s blood pounded, and every nerve crackled with energy. “Come to me, my husband. You sick psychopath, come to me.”
She watched him attempt to bounce one of his shock waves from his chest, but all he could manage was a weak pulse of air that smelled like sour milk. The poison Damen had used seemed to be eating Noble alive from the inside out. Dark blood, almost black, leaked from his eyes, his ears, his mouth. He whimpered like a child when convulsions overtook his body, his hands quaking like an arctic blast had shot through his veins. He dropped the sword, and the blade sparked when it hit the ground.
Noble pushed on with a pained groan as she goaded him with the dangling stone. He’d lunge for the stone, she’d drop it off the tower, and he’d plummet, and this time in his weakened state, from this height, it’d be to his death. “Come on,” she hissed.
But she underestimated him. The stone was meant to be the prize; but Noble’s prize was revenge, and he had two clawed hands encased in metal. The one hand grabbed her throat and the other hand tore the stone from her grip and pressed it between their palms.
“Together,” he muttered into her bleeding ear.
Taros and Candria—two level golden eyes bore through hers. Her breath squeezed through her tightening airway. The stone grew warm and pulsated. Or maybe it was her blood pounding through her veins, pounding through her metal skin. Voices took up the beat and cried in her head.
Uncle Ed’s: “Fight like it matters.”
Amada’s: “You’re a special one, y’are.”
Damen’s: “Don’t let me die in vain.”
And her own voice: “I am a survivor.”
Marcis’s voice tore through them all: “Jennica, drop. Now.”
Jennica stopped trying to pry Noble’s hand from around her throat and relaxed every muscle in her body, just as Shohan Sato had taught her. The change in her body weight pulled Noble off balance and she used his unsteadiness against him. She whacked him across his side with her silver arm and heard his rib crack even before she felt it yield through his metal scales. She raised her bare silver foot and then thrust the heel downward, crushing his kneecap into rubble. His howl f
roze her in place for a moment. She gasped for breath.
Marcis threw her the Sword of Urion.
As she plucked the sword from the air, the hilt hummed in her hands, the blade sang in her head, and she saw the gap in Noble’s neck clearly, like someone had painted it dazzling blue. Like a magnet, the blue spot pulled the tip of the sword forward. She let the blade lead her, its power leaching through her arms, up through her back and shoulders. She snarled when the sword bit into Noble’s flesh.
He grasped the blade with his hands, fighting to pull it from his throat as she shoved against him. The sword sliced his hands. Thick, dark blood oozed down the blade, and the sword vibrated. The power! It filled her. Completed her. She plunged the sword through Noble’s neck.
“You . . . have turned into . . . me.” His voice raged inside her head, while he coughed and choked on his own blood. “You are . . . me.”
“Never.” With a fierce thrust, she separated Noble’s head from his body. The voice inside her head fell silent.
Noble’s decapitated head kept sputtering. His eyes rolled and then locked on hers. His lips curled from his metal teeth. He was grinning. Grinning! Panicked, she scanned his body. The transfer stone still lay in the palm of his outstretched hand.
“The stone! In Noble’s hand!” Jennica shouted.
Marcis dove onto Noble’s body and threaded his fingers through Noble’s, encircling the stone. Air sucked out of the sky, and then came pouring back into the tower in dark, menacing gusts.
Jennica crawled to Damen’s side. Dried blood caked in the corners of his mouth. She pressed her ear against his chest. His heartbeat was slow, labored, dying. “Please,” she cried out. The wind whipped at her hair and clothes; her ribs tightened, lungs screaming. She expelled her breath in one last prayer. “Please save him, Aprica.”
“I will,” she imagined she heard Joss say. And then the world turned blue.
JENNICA
CHAPTER FORTY
ESPERANCE VALLEY
Jennica woke to a stinging slap, a familiar withered face hovering, and two moons bathing her in watery light. As she shook off the haze cloaking her brain, she realized that only moments had passed, and she was still in the North Tower.
“Girl. Get up.”
“Argathe?” Her tongue felt thick and tender. She must’ve bitten it.
The tower looked like a slumber party gone horribly wrong. Pillows were strewn everywhere, torn and bloody. Hawks, like crushed gargoyles in frozen poses, stared with dead stone eyes.
“You said my name? How do you know me? You didn’t transfer, did you? Why didn’t you transfer?”
Jennica’s head rocked back and forth, and it took a moment for her to realize that Argathe was shaking her.
“Cut it out.” She knocked the old woman aside with her silver arm. “Oh, sorry.” She’d never get used to her extra strength. Fully awake, the question on her mind now was: “Damen?” She crawled to him. His face—warm, a pulse throbbed in his neck!—strong. “He’s alive! Wake up, oh please, wake up.” She pressed her cheek against his heart—it drummed, soft but steady.
She turned on Argathe. “Why won’t he wake up? Do something! He’s your son!”
“He’ll be fine.” She stood and shook the wrinkles out of her robe.
“Don’t you care? He poisoned himself, poisoned Noble, to save me.” She could barely choke the words out. He’d been selfless and brave and . . . she could count on him.
“Stupid boy. You’d better make a wish that he picked the right poison to use. Otherwise . . .” She slashed her finger across her neck, making cutting noises with her lips and tongue. “Shouldn’t have interfered.”
Then Argathe noticed something. “What’s this?” With Damen’s dagger she attempted to pry Marcis’s and Noble’s hands apart. They were clutched together in a death grip of silver claws and flesh. The knife found leverage, their hands snapped apart, and the transfer stone fell to the ground.
Marcis groaned, his fingers twitching.
“Well, your soldier’s alive, too.” Argathe ignored Marcis and kicked Noble’s head with her sandaled foot. “Looks like the only one dead is you, Noble Tortare.” She cackled, and lifted one of his eyelids. The white showed; the rest had rolled up to look out the back of his skull. “At least something went right. Ah—his protectors have arrived.” She let go of Noble’s eyelid and it stayed propped open.
Quintus and three other soldiers stopped near the entrance to the North Tower and surveyed the bloody wreckage. Their dazed expressions mimicked Jennica’s feelings. Mind-numbing, heart-wrenching feelings she couldn’t begin to control.
“Nobless? What do you want us to do?” Quintus asked. He kneeled in front of her, but she didn’t recall seeing him walk over. “You’re in charge now,” he whispered, too low for the other soldiers to hear. “You should give us an order before someone decides you’re not fit to rule.”
“Rule?” Did he expect her to take over for Noble? Wasn’t the insanity over? It wasn’t over if she had to be in charge. She didn’t want to be in charge. Noble had told her with his dying words that she was him now. Well, she didn’t want to be him. All she wanted was for Damen to wake up.
“Nobless? Fascienne is advancing. Her army will arrive by morning. What do you want to do?”
She froze, mute. Indecision handcuffed her to the floor. Her first impulse was to send soldiers to destroy Fascienne and her army. But that was crazy. She stuffed that desire deep inside herself.
“Maybe you want us to do something with your husband’s body?” one of the soldiers suggested.
Argathe circled Noble’s corpse, kicking it, poking it with Damen’s dagger.
“Okay,” Jennica said. Then she whispered, “What should we do with it?” Bury it? Burn it? Stick it on the end of a pole?
“You could order me to bring the body to Fascienne. Maybe her army will turn back when she sees he’s dead. At the least, it could make a transition of power more peaceful.”
“Do that.”
Quintus’s idea was as good as any, especially if it might prevent a war, protect the people. Her ears buzzed and her skin itched. Whatever was going on inside her, she did her best to control it. “And release all the prisoners. Empty the dungeons and let them go home.” During these few moments in which she was the one ruling, she could at least try to fix some of Noble’s worst crimes. Then she’d hand the place over to Fascienne.
A soldier who reminded her of Logan smiled and slapped his thigh. “Yes, Nobless, right away. Anything else?”
“If there are any Cidrans left in the castle, let them out too.”
“Yes, Nobless.”
“And the hawks . . .” She hadn’t considered how to destroy them. Maybe they could be chained up so they couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.
“They’re gone—the roosts are empty. These”—the soldier gestured at the winged remains—“were the last of them.”
“Good. But no one is ever to make any more, understand? And no more capturing Rosen women. Well, any women.”
“Yes—you’re doing fine, Nobless.” These soldiers seemed satisfied with the stream of steady orders she issued. And the more she issued them, the quieter the buzzing, the calmer her mind.
“Most important.” She brought her voice down low again, so Argathe wouldn’t hear. “Destroy whatever Urion you can find. Every bit of it. Okay? All of it done before Fascienne takes over. I don’t want her to have it. No one should have it.” She sighed with relief at her own plan. “I am not Noble Tortare. I will never be him. I don’t want to rule anybody.” One by one, she looked each of the soldiers in the eye. “I just want to leave. With Damen.” Now that Noble was dead, there was no reason for her to be forced to stay. No more Rosen skin. No more Nobless. She was finally free.
A little voice nagged inside her mind. What if Fascienne won’t let you go? What if the other soldiers prevent you from leaving? She needed to be prepared for a fight. Her skin didn’t itch any more; it prickled e
agerly.
“Dollen Xander at your service, Nobless.” The soldier kissed her hand again and addressed the others. “Let’s clean up this mess.”
It took all four of them to carry Noble’s body. Argathe trailed behind, clutching Noble’s head by its ear.
Damen lay unconscious, but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Relieved, Jennica went to check on Marcis.
A true knight. She didn’t hate him for wanting to kill her body—she had only love for her courageous friend who had helped her destroy Noble. His side had stopped bleeding, and his eyes fluttered open when she touched the closed wound.
“Where am I?” He flattened his body against the wall.
She’d never seen Marcis terrified of anything, but here he was cowering in front of her. “Marcis?”
“What? Who’s Marcis? I’m Kyle. Holy shit, are those two moons? Where am I?” Tears welled in the soldier’s eyes. “What’s happening?”
Marcis was gone. Whomever Kyle was, he was terrified. He acted young.
“It’s going to be okay, Kyle. How old are you?”
“Twelve.” He covered his mouth. His eyes darted, and his pulse thumped through the skin of his throat like a fragile bird.
Twelve? Her stomach lurched. Marcis must be on Earth, a grown man in the body of someone less than half his age. And this poor soul? Well, she’d do what she could for him. It was because of her mistake that he was there—if only she’d been able to keep the stone away from Noble herself.
Thank Aprica that Noble had died before the transfer. Just in case, Marcis would be there to make sure no one revived Astrune’s monster back on Earth. Marcis had to be there, right? Noble and Marcis were touching the transfer stone at the same time.
“It’s going to be okay, Kyle. I’m from Earth too, and I know what you’re going through. My name is Jennica and I’m going to help you—okay?”
“Jennica? Jennica Duncan? I’m Kyle Powell. Lisbeth’s brother.”