Kissed by Death - Book three of the Trueborn Heirs Series

by Queen, Nyna

  That was exactly what these three men considered themselves as, Alex realized. Brothers. And not just in arms.

  At the Summerball, Roukewood had told her how he grieved for his deceased father, except if common talk could be believed, their relationship had been rather reserved. And while he regularly sent big bouquets of expensive flowers to his mother, who was housed in a facility for senile dementia patients, and made it a point to visit her every few weeks, rumor had it that he did it more for his public image than for the woman herself. Alex was more than inclined to believe those rumors.

  Roukewood didn’t think of his parents as his family. The other men in this memora, they were his true family. His chosen family.

  Alex extracted her halfborn camera and took a couple of snapshots of the memora, just to be sure that there was a good one among them. The quiet whirr of the camera sounded unbearably loud in the silence.

  Afterwards, she returned the picture to its former place and turned on her heel. Scanned the room. She must have missed something during her search. Her eyes narrowed but nothing new revealed itself to her. Nothing but that strange magical buzz that had no clear source. It had been stronger on the left side of the room…

  Alex returned to the door, putting herself in the exact same spot where Roukewood had stood when he’d shown them this room, and stared at the desk, trying to see through his eyes. There was no secret drawer in the desk, she’d checked for that during her search. There was also no hidden trap door underneath it or anything.

  She let her gaze slide up and down slowly. It snagged on the huge oil painting that hung on the wall behind the desk. The revered Rhinoux. She almost rolled her eyes. La Misa de Verra. Low-keyed, in colors between green and brown flecked with gold, it wasn’t one of the ugliest painting she’d seen in this house, but she still didn’t get why everybody was making such a fuss—

  Wait just a minute! Alex rose up on her toes, bringing herself up to Roukewood’s height. Maybe … maybe it hadn’t been the desk he had looked at. Maybe it had been the painting.

  Alex marched past the desk and inspected the frame. Solid wood. She slid her hands along its sides. It took her a moment, but then her fingers found two spots that gave way. She pressed them simultaneously. The painting rolled forward about three inches, revealing a silver handle at its back.

  Alex grinned. Well, well, look at that! Only Roukewood would dare to hide something behind a painting in the presence of which most people hardly dared to breathe, let alone get the idea to touch it.

  Good thing that she had no such qualms. Alex grabbed the handle and pulled.

  The painting swung open like a door, revealing a tall rectangle big enough for a person to step through in the mural behind it. Magic splashed out of the opening like an invisible waterfall, rising the hairs all over her body.

  Alex peered into the darkness behind it, piercing it with her true eyes. On the left side of the small room, a tall, black mannequin dressed in the exact same uniform she’d just seen in the memora drew her eye, the royal blue half-shoulder cloak fastened over it with a beautiful golden clasp in the shape of an ivy leaf. Speak of vanity.

  And on the other side of the room… Hello, Roukewood’s vault.

  The descriptions hadn’t done it justice. It was truly monstrous, taller than Alex by at least three handspans and three times as wide, consisting of armor-plated black metal covered in arcane glyphs that were softly glowing with pale-blue magic. Iron Dragon, indeed.

  Alex was about to jump through the opening to take a closer look, but a primal instinct made her stop. The spider hissed, puffing out invisible fur. Trusting her gut, she reached into her backpack and tossed a small cloth decoy into the room.

  With the softest clack, magic discharged and a volley of small arrows whistled past her face and punched the opposite wall from the ceiling down to the floor in a tight line.

  Tack tack tack tack tack.

  Woah! Alex needed a moment before she remembered how to breathe. Roukie, you sick little bastard, you. He certainly didn’t take any chances. If she’d taken one step into the room, she would have been perforated like a cheese hedgehog by now, ready for Roukewood to have a little feast on.

  Magic still pulsed from the vault, but the undefined magic buzz in the air was gone. Apparently, her decoy had deactivated the defensive spell, or whatever it had been. Alex tossed another decoy for good measure, but nothing happened, and it just bounced off the opposite wall of the room.

  Still slightly unnerved, she climbed through the hole and approached the vault, probing it with her sensory threads, taking a taste of the magic surrounding it. The magic sheen coated the entire vault like a ward, and she had no doubt that if she touched it, it would do something equally nasty like stunning her senseless, or killing her, or sounding an alarm, or, perhaps, all of it. The only unguarded spot was the two by two inch wide fingerprint identification panel.

  A smug little grin curved her lips. The clever spider comes prepared.

  While spying out Roukewood’s defensive mechanisms during the dinner party, Alex had also pocketed quite a bit of stuff that could possibly be helpful for a later break-in. Stephane, Edalyne and Heloise had created a list of items which might be particularly useful for creating spells and sigils and for disarming typical security measures: a few strands of Roukewood’s hair collected from his jacket; a finished cigarette for saliva traces; the napkin he’d used to wipe his hands and mouth after dinner.

  After Lord Henley had mentioned the security vault, and someone had muttered something about personal identification, Alex had even taken the risk to swipe one of the small shot glasses he’d drunk from.

  Alex fetched a small, unremarkable black box from her backpack, opened it and inspected the two flesh-colored pieces of silicone-like material resting on the padding.

  Despite Stephane’s initial reservations, Alex had taken her loot to Bartholomeus Farlow, Darken’s science genius friend from the Pacified Zone. After a lot of squirming and writhing and repeatedly muttering, “just don’t tell me what this is for,” he’d checked the items for fingerprints and, between the glass and the cigarette stub, had reproduced prints of Roukewood’s right forefinger and thumb and created these little babies for Alex. In contrast to his words, Alex would bet that Barthi hadn’t even waited for her to leave the Academia before checking whom these fingerprints belonged to. She just hoped for all of their sakes that Darken had chosen his friends with care.

  She removed the fingerprint dummies and slipped them over her own fingertips. They fit snugly. With a deep exhale, she turned to the vault and raised her hand. Roukewood was right-handed. Here’s hoping Roukie hadn’t followed a whim and used his left hand when programming the identification panel.

  Alex placed her coated forefinger on the screen. Energy threads rolled over the blue surface, nipping at the dummy. The panel gave an ominous beep and flared red. Alex’s chest and neck turned broiling hot. She swallowed. Shaking slightly, she shifted her hand and placed her thumb against the panel instead.

  Please, Great Mother, please.

  Magic nipped at her false thumb, scanning.

  Please, please, please.

  Green light ignited this time. The magic coat vanished, and the door opened with a dull metal clack.

  Alex trembled with relief, exhaling her anxiety through her nose.

  One lock down.

  If the vault followed the typical construction, there would be three locks, though their composition differed in accordance with the customers’ preferences.

  After trading the fingertip dummies back against the glove, Alex opened the door. Behind it was a second door of simple black metal with a slim keyhole in the middle.

  Alex pondered the lock. Hunting for the key in the house would be futile. Roukewood certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave it anywhere nearby, and she didn’t even know what it looked like.

  She checked her watch. Half past two. The clock was ticking. She prided herself on her
lock-picking skills, but she had a feeling they wouldn’t get her anywhere in this case. So, she could either waste precious time she didn’t have or…

  Going through the items in her backpack, Alex pulled out another gadget from Darken’s military stock. It was a clavica universalis, loosely translating as a ‘universal key’. It looked like a plain metal ring she could have slipped over her ring finger, with a one inch long, thin metallic rod attached to it. They were very rare because there weren’t many magic crafters powerful enough to manipulate the metal in the right way. Alex had heard of them—anyone who’d wandered the twisted roads of the criminal underworld had at one point or another—but she’d never actually used one before.

  Alex stuck the rod of the clavica into the lock hole, sent a tiny spark of her magic through her hand and waited with bated breath. Magic ignited within the keyhole, swirling in blue-silver tendrils, scanning the lock. The metal rod expanded, matching the form of the hole and suddenly Alex felt a drag. She turned the ring. The lock clicked.

  Alex closed her mouth. Sweet Jester, this was beyond cool. If you had a handful of these, all doors would be open to you, literally.

  Its magic charge used up, the rod disintegrated and crumbled into fine, powdery dust, leaving Alex holding a useless metal ring. Right, that was a drawback. They only worked once.

  Two down, one more lock to go.

  Alex pulled the second door open—and almost laughed. Roukewood sure had a sense of humor.

  It was a classical combination lock. After the other defenses, this one seemed nearly trivial, except it wasn’t. Oh, Alex could almost picture all those magic heavy weights plowing through the other defenses as if they were nothing but sawdust and then being stumped on a lock that could have been used on any halfborn safe.

  A little probing with her senses confirmed her suspicion. The safe had a relocking system with a plate of tampered glass as a trigger. If fiddled with, magically or otherwise, the glass would shatter and the relock system would be activated and block the bolt mechanism of the safe from operating, permanently locking it. In that case, it could only be opened by the vendor company’s own safe technician or another expert, and all her time and effort here would have been wasted for nothing. You couldn’t drill, break or magic your way through this door. No, you had to open it the old-fashioned way.

  Luckily, Alex had her fair share of experience with combination locks like this one. As a teenager, fending for herself on the streets, and during her work for the Duke, she had cracked quite a few of them. She might be a bit rustic in the department, but as they said, it was like riding a bike—you never forget the moves.

  Alex crouched down and placed her right ear against the safe door. A normal human would need a stethoscope for this, but her shaper hearing was acute enough to do without. At least, it always had been before. She pulled her sensory threads toward her and turned them inward, focusing all her senses on the safe door.

  She touched the dial wheel and turned it gently. Turn, turn, turn. A faint, muffled sound announced the first tumbler falling into place. Alex reversed the dial.

  One, two—a mechanic click, not too different from the first sound, reached her ear. Alex hesitated, unsure. Fake tumbler or not? A drop of sweat rolled down her forehead. She wiped it away with her other hand. Fortunately, she didn’t sweat easily, or she would have been drenched in her own fluids by now.

  Fake, yes, no? She wavered. Fake, she decided. The sound had been just a tad too loud. Praying to the Jester that she was right, Alex kept on turning. Another click. There, the real tumbler. Phew!

  And again. Turn, turn. Something tugged on Alex’s senses, a person moving somewhere in the house. She blocked it out, focusing her attention back on the safe door.

  Concentrate, sugar! One miss and you’re doomed!

  She swayed slightly and blinked her eyes. Breathe, damn you.

  Turn. Turn, turn, turn, click. The last tumbler fell into place with an audible sound. Alex straightened, grabbed two arms of the silver wheel handle with shaking hands and spun it. The door slid open with buttery grace. She nearly wept in relief.

  Inside the vault, folders upon folders holding crystalline papers piled on top of each other beside boxes filled with small, silver memory chips and Echeranion Spheres. It also contained a glass jar full of deceptively real looking crystals.

  Alex’s eyes lit up. Yesss, come to mama!

  “Looking for something?” a low voice asked with quiet menace from behind her.

  Alex jerked around with a start, unleashing her claws. A glaring white light blinded her, and she instinctively raised her arms to shield her sensitive eyes. For a split second, she saw a tall, blurry shape outlined against the glowing rectangle in the wall, then something hit her hard over the head and her lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ONE hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Darken crouched inside the stony archway and listened to the whispering chorus of the night.

  In the middle of the walled-in yard behind him, a single lantern doughtily tried to banish the darkness—a lone soldier fighting for a lost cause. Beyond the archway, the lumpy expanse of an old, neglected graveyard stretched underneath a starless night sky that covered the world like a heavy blanket. Wafts of mist pooled within the hollows in the ground, spilling out between the crooked teeth of overgrown tombstones like the ghostly fingers of long dead people clutching at the world of the living.

  Darken was inside the deepest halfborn territory, in a derelict neighborhood named Mourningwillow in the Province of Daerlion. It was long past midnight, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The inhabitants made a wide berth around the graveyard, even during the day, convinced that it was haunted. A somber smile curved Darken’s lips. Tonight it would be.

  He shifted a little and leaned against the stone, his dark eyes scanning the yard. Except for the wind moaning through the wispy trees, everything was sinister and quiet. For the moment.

  His pursuers were close. He could sense their approach with the certainty of a predator sensing the presence of blood-hungry competitors. During the past days, having the advantages of rest and resources on their side, they had steadily gained ground on him, slowly tightening the invisible noose around his neck. Twice they had almost been on him, and he’d only escaped by a hair’s breadth. Tonight, the running would come to an end.

  Darken’s lips pulled upward in a small grimace. He’d been well aware that it would be a risk to show up at the Provost’s door step, that it would be like shooting a flare gun in the night. Oh yes, he’d known the risk and he had taken it willfully, considering the possible benefits…

  The grimace turned into a bitter scowl. He’d been a fool to think that Lord Falcrum would have the backbone to help him. That sniveling, self-centered bastard was far too attached to the cushy life he’d built for himself to endanger it, even if it meant doing the right thing.

  Still, Darken had hoped. Well, he had tried. It hadn’t been the main reason for his visit, either. Danger or no, he’d made a deathbed promise to Belaris, so to speak, and he’d had to at least try to fulfill it. He owed his best friend that much.

  Four days ago, he’d collected Belaris’ package at their usual hiding spot in a spell-sealed cave a couple of miles from the Order convent in Gral de Bassano. The problem was that he couldn’t deliver it in person without endangering the life of Belaris’ sister Adira. At the same time, he had no idea how long he could actually survive this cat-and-mouse game he was playing with the Order.

  Placing the Provost’s sigil on the mail piece had seemed the most effective way to guarantee that it would be delivered speedily and without questions. Since getting into the convent was out of the question, it had only left Falcrum’s private manor.

  Darken would have attempted even riskier ventures to fulfill Belaris’ dying wish. Now, the box was on its way, and no matter what might happen to Darken, Adira would get her goodbye and, maybe, it would bring a little bit of peace to Belaris’ so
ul.

  Darken bent his head when the serrated teeth of grief tore at his heart. Belaris’ daredevil grin filled his mind, that arrogant, beloved face that said, ‘come on, give it your best shot’.

  You’d miss me if I weren't there. Words spoken in jest only weeks ago. It felt like years had passed since then.

  Yes, Darken thought, I miss you, my friend. You have no idea how much.

  The familiar anguish clamped his body and shook him, followed by burning regret, and the question, always the question—could he have stopped it? Could he have done something to prevent Belaris’ death from happening?

  Oh, the logical part of Darken was aware that these kinds of questions were toxic as they led to nothing but more regrets, because no matter how deeply you dug and how many stones you turned, you could never find the answer to it. Only more doubts. But, ah, those doubts…

  The Custodian’s voice rang through his mind, fresh and vivid, as though he were standing right beside Blayde inside his hotel in the Pacified Zone. I see death in your future, Darken.

  A warning he’d set at naught at the time. But now that Belaris was dead…

  That a key wasn’t broken doesn't mean it is unbreakable. Another warning. A cold finger whispered along Darken’s spine. It was the reason why he had left Alex behind at Helton Manor even though it had almost torn him apart. If he had taken her along, and she’d died because of it…

  No! No more sacrifices for him, from no one, especially not from Alex.

  A feeling of deepest betrayal seared the inside of his chest. At least, it was how Alex would see his action, he was painfully sure of it. Still, he didn’t—couldn’t—regret his decision. Not when it meant that Alex was safe. That was what gave him the strength to keep fighting. Nothing else mattered.