by Queen, Nyna
No, he didn’t regret his decision. What he did regret was the fact that their brief but glorious time together would be overshadowed by notions of anger and betrayal. It pained him to think that her last thoughts of him might be tainted with regret. That she might never forgive him.
And yet, if that was the price he had to pay so that Alex would survive, get a chance to solve this entire mess and—if the Great Mother was merciful—have a shot at a full, long life, even if it was without him, he wouldn’t hesitate to pay it. More than anything, he wanted for her to be happy.
Alex wouldn’t be lost without him. Stephane and Edalyne wouldn’t just abandon her. They would help her as best as they could, there was no doubt in his mind in that regard. Except, of course, his brother was currently sitting in a cell in a high security prison, awaiting his murder trial. Fury simmered through Darken at the thought. The Provost hadn’t lied about that.
How had Debayne’s body been discovered at the townhouse? How had the news of the circumstances of his missing reached the ears of the law enforcement so quickly? Something didn’t quite add up here, but Darken couldn’t put his finger on it—yet.
After he’d left the Provost’s mansion, he’d felt dangerously tempted to return home right away and hunt for answers, but that would have been ill-advised. Acting rashly usually resulted in catastrophes. For all he knew, the entire situation might have been arranged specifically to lure him back to the family seat. And when he’d realized that he had deadly shadows on his heels…
No, Stephane’s imprisonment wasn’t his most acute problem at the moment. His brother could afford the best lawyers in the Republic, and the preparation of a trial took time. For the time being, Steph was probably safer than the rest of them. And when the time came … well, Darken would get to the bottom of it—that was, if he survived the night.
The hoarse cry of a crow echoed over the graveyard, Death’s herald calling an invitation to the funeral feast.
Darken tensed and let his gaze travel across the walled-in yard once more. It was still deceptively deserted, but the night had its own way of announcing intruders. The wind sighed in the branches of the trees scattered throughout the graveyard, singing a soft, keening lament for the dead and for those who were about to join them.
Despite of what he’d said to the Provost, Darken knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun the Order’s death squads forever. One of these days, there would be a blood-shedding, and if he had to face them, he’d much rather do it on his own terms, in the arena of his choosing, instead of having them force the confrontation upon him when the situation was to their advantage. Since his visit to the Provost, Darken had barely slept, moving nearly non-stop, eating only field rations. Considering the state he was in, he needed every advantage he could get on his side.
His eyes flickered west for an instant. His hover-cycle was well-hidden half a mile away in a little grove just outside of town, cloaked in a camouflage spell. Darken’s teeth flashed in the dark. Should someone try to break that spell by force, he’d be in for a hell of a surprise.
The darkness in the yard suddenly shivered like the surface of a lake that had been broken by a stone. Darken stiffened as a whispering chill licked at his skin, raising the hairs on his arms as though invisible ghosts were crawling toward him over the cobble stones, and he instinctively knew that he was no longer alone. Nothing had changed physically, but all of a sudden, the night seemed to have become deeper, darker. Even the wind over the graveyard had died down. Death was stalking the vicinity and every living thing hushed and hid, hoping she would walk past without taking notice.
Darken had no such luxury. In fact, he had invited her for this dance.
In the yard, three shapes in hooded black cloaks peeled from the drifting shadows and stopped just at the outer edge of the lone street lamp’s light cone, forming a half circle, still mostly immersed in the darkness.
Since they knew he was there, there was no point in hiding any longer.
Without a sound, Darken disengaged from the wall and glided out from under the arch until he stood at the opposite end of the light cone with about fifteen feet of neutral ground separating them.
As if on a silent signal, the three men reached up and simultaneously pulled back their hoods.
For a long moment, they sized each other up.
The two men in the middle and to the left were from the rare older generation of Forfeits, veterans of the trade.
Rojas and Jyulian. Darken knew both of them from his service at the Order. He’d even had a couple of assignments together with Rojas in the past, and they had stayed together at the convent in Lancaster often enough to be on what Forfeits considered cordial terms. It didn’t make them friends by a long shot, but serving together, relying on each other to have the other’s back during a mission inevitably fostered some kind of wordless comradeship, some sort of mutual respect for one another. It wouldn’t stop Rojas from killing him, Darken harbored no such illusions, but it might make him hesitate a second longer.
When the state took everything from you, including your birth name and any chance of a normal life, a certain code of honor, no matter how twisted or crude, was all they could hold onto for themselves. Most of the Forfeits adhered to it. It was the kind of honor that was frail and short lived, and as soon as they started to fight, they would all fight dirty, would all fight to survive, but at least those who knew him personally would rather face him than stab him in the back.
The third man in the row was unfamiliar to Darken, a handsome blond hunk of a man who could barely be past twenty and didn't know where to put all his overflowing testosterone.
The massive handle of a long bastard sword peeked over his muscular shoulder. It was a murder weapon that could cleave an enemy’s skull in two with a single deadly blow. However, it was the kind of weapon best used against lesser swordsmen. While it could cause massive destruction in an instant, if one didn’t get in a killing blow right away, it could quickly turn into a heavy, clumsy tool that would easily tire its wielder and might be his undoing.
Darken pondered the youngster. Arrogant, eager, and reckless. Typical traits of many of the younger Forfeits. They either grew out of it—or died.
Besides being blond, blue-eyed, tanned, and conceited enough for three, the young buck looked nothing like Belaris, but he still reminded Darken so much of his best friend when they had first met that his innards constricted with a sharp pain.
Wrestling down the riot of emotions that wouldn’t serve him in the coming fight, Darken settled his face into its typical cold, indifferent Forfeit mask.
“Darken.” Rojas, the man in the middle, dark-haired and rough with one side of his face heavily distorted by burn-scars, inclined his head in a curt military greeting.
Darken returned it with a short nod, then tipped his head to the man at his left. “Rojas. Jyulian.”
He turned and inclined his head toward the youngster who only gave him a disparaging look and then demonstratively spat to the side. Darken lifted an eyebrow in mild irritation. Not even basic curtesy, then?
With a taunting grin, the youngster reached up and drew his monstrous sword. He flipped the weapon to his other hand and turned it over with an exaggerated flourish, pointing the tip in the direction of Darken’s throat.
Darken inwardly shook his head. Arrogant fool. Oh, it certainly looked impressive. It was also a waste of energy and showed Darken that he had a light tendency to favor his right side. You just didn’t give an opponent an advantage like that—unless you sorely underestimated them or just as sorely overestimated yourself. Both could be equally deadly.
Showing himself unimpressed by the swagger, Darken shifted his attention back to the two older Forfeits who would be the far more dangerous opponents in this fight.
A faint smile curved Rojas’ lips, lifting the corner of his mouth on the unharmed side of his face while the burned half remained eerily motionless.
“You’re a hard man to find, Darken,�
�� he rasped in his broken voice.
Darken gave a silky shrug. “I’ve been on a busy schedule lately.”
“One that has made you many enemies, it seems,” Jyulian observed drily and raked a hand through his short, grizzled hair.
“It would seem so,” Darken agreed just as drily.
“That’s what happens when you break the rules of the Order, traitor!” the young buck snapped, raising his sword a little higher in its aggressive position.
Rojas shot him an annoyed glance. Beside him, Jyulian stiffened and pressed his lips together.
Much more intrigued by the other men’s reactions than by the kid’s jibe, Darken merely graced the youngster with a dismissive sideglance, not rising to the bait. He’d been at the game too long to get riled up and lose his temper because of some cocky remark.
Rojas and Jyulian exchanged a swift look but, by some unspoken agreement, let it go.
After a long moment of tense silence, only broken by the soft lament of the wind, Rojas said quietly, “I was sorry to hear about Belaris. He was a good man.”
Darken clenched his teeth but the regret in Rojas voice wasn’t feigned.
Not meant to goad him, he decided, but an expression of sympathy. He bowed his head, allowing his pain to surface for one small, fleeting instant. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Yes, he was.”
Jyulian grunted in agreement.
“Just another traitor,” the youngster muttered disgustedly.
A furious crimson glow flared in Rojas’ eyes and for a second Julian looked as if he would reach for his own weapon and whack the young buck over the head with it.
From the Order’s perspective, the youngster’s statement was nothing but the truth, but some things simply weren't done. One didn’t soil the memory of a deceased Forfeit brother no matter his crimes—because they had all committed so many that they were beyond the right to judge.
Watching the kid’s mouth tighten in defiance, Darken contemplated the power dynamic in this death squad. Rojas was clearly the one in charge of this combat cell, and he and Julian saw eye to eye. The little whippersnapper, however, appeared to only be grudgingly accepted. Why was that? Usually, a squad would be comprised of men who harmonized well. It was better for the job and avoided inconvenient casualties—on the Order’s side. Why send someone with them who’d grind on the rest like a sore tooth?
Darken cocked his head. Maybe that was exactly the reason why the kid was part of the group. The Order’s leadership knew that both Rojas and Jyulian were experienced and efficient—perfectly suited for the job—but they both also had personal experience with Darken, and after Belaris’ betrayal…
Perhaps they weren’t quite as confident in the loyalty of their own agents as they used to be. So, they added someone young and eager, someone who still loudly sang the credo of the Order to keep the rest of the squad in line.
Well, well, well, what do you know. Darken smiled, not bothering to hide how pleased that thought made him feel.
The youngster’s eyes blazed with an angry red fire. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. “What are you laughing at?”
“I find your filial obedience touching,” Darken replied smoothy, letting his eyes wander down the youngster’s virile physique. “Tell me, was it sufficient to put a leash on you, or did they have to snip off your balls, too?”
Jyulian made a chortling sound that might have been suppressed laughter. The youngster’s knuckles turned bone-white on his sword hilt, and his face gained an unhealthy shade of purple.
“I’m gonna cut off your balls and make you swallow them!” he snarled and took a threatening step forward, lifting his sword over his head.
Rojas simply raised a hand. The young man froze mid-step, his body shaking with restrained ire. Pure loathing distorted his features as he looked from Rojas to Darken and back, but he heeded the silent command. Speaking about unconditional obedience.
Darken pointedly raised his eyebrows at him. Feeling the leash, kid?
Watching the young man silently choke on his fury, Darken felt almost sorry for him. Still so eager to fight. Still so eager to prove himself. Give him a few more years of killing orders, punishment and forced sexual intercourse strapped to a narrow bed, and he’d likely change his tune.
Sure, there were Forfeits who embraced this kind of life and even found some perverse enjoyment in it, but most members of the brotherhood were somewhere more or less high up on the vast scale of bitterness. The young buck might yet shed his loyal servant coat, but that was still a long way off. Tonight, his enthusiasm made him volatile and dangerous. He saw himself as the Order’s rightful instrument and Darken as a traitor. Arrogant or not, he shouldn’t be underestimated.
The wind picked up again, moaning and screeching around the tombstones, rattling the branches like brittle old bones. The night was growing old. Nothing more to be said or done. It was time.
Following the same train of thought, Rojas tilted his chin up. “This is it then.” He sounded almost regretful.
Darken nodded. “This is it.”
He reached over his shoulder and unsheathed his sword in one fluid movement. The single-edged blade wasn’t as good as his favorite sword which Stephane had crafted for his twentieth birthday, the one he had lost in Duncan’s Teeth, but it had tasted a lot of blood in his hands already, and it would serve him well in this fight. Automatically falling into a fighting stance with his legs slightly apart, his head gently bowed and his shoulder muscles relaxed, he held it at his side at a downward angle, passive but ready.
Magic snapped from him in a wide arch and throughout the dark yard arcane glyphs ignited with bright white-blue light, spiraling outward from his position. A transparent dome formed above the rectangle of stone, condensing into a magical cage that confined all four men until Darken fell or released them.
Above the glyphs, ghostly shapes rose from the ground, not quite human in form, more specters made from smoke and pulsing light vaguely reminiscent of human bodies. The Syphoners. Manifestations of his magic, they would sap the strength of any living being that came into contact with them and transfer it to Darken through the ghost-ring.
The dead were the anchor and the fuel for this spell. So close to a graveyard, this kind of magic was at its most potent. By way of a blood offering, Darken had watered most of the graves in the cemetery and thereby keyed the ghost-ring to his own magic signature, making himself the Master of the Dead.
A grim smile bent Darken’s lips at the brief flickers of surprise in his pursuers’ eyes. They hadn’t caught up on him so quickly because he had been resting his feet.
The shadow of a grin traveled over Jyulian’s face as if Darken had just introduced a challenging new rule to the game they were playing that was going to make things a bit more interesting.
The blond youngster appeared a little shocked as his head swiveled from side to side, no doubt never having seen this kind of magic in action before, but then he bared his teeth and let his death magic roll up and down his arms in smoky black tendrils.
Darken just waited. He was outnumbered, they all knew it, and no amount of trap spells was going to make that much of a difference.
Under normal circumstances, Darken wouldn’t bet his life that he could take on the three of them by himself. Three other men? Easily. But three other Forfeits? That was another matter altogether, even with the help of the dead.
But the circumstances were far from normal.
Darken didn’t think that any of the other men had any desire to die, but he also didn’t think that any of them wanted to live as much as he did.
He had always thought that he had made peace with the fact that his death was just a question of time—and it had been true. But then Alex had stumbled into his life. Alex with her teeth and claws, her prickly tongue and biting sarcasm, ensnaring him with her spider threads. His beautiful, stubborn, irritating spider. He thought about the way her eyebrows tended to curve upward when she got feisty, about th
e incredibly blue shade of her eyes, about the way her hair had felt when it slid through his fingers, like cool, snowy silk…
He also thought about Maxwell and Josepha, about his brothers and Edalyne. Half a dozen reasons to live for. Half a dozen reasons to die for. But, damn it, he really didn’t want to die!
Across from him, Rojas and Jyulian also drew their weapons, Rojas wielding a blade much like Darken’s, which came free from its scabbard in a glittering arch like a fallen star in the darkness, while Jyulian raised two short-handled battle axes sharpened to a razor’s edge.
They pondered him, careful, assessing, the way predators circled an intruder in their territory, not afraid but wary and alert. Darken had a reputation among the Forfeits, and he hadn’t earned it for nothing.
Rojas raised his free hand and spread his fingers. “You know it is nothing personal.”
“I know.” Darken turned his sword over and raised it in front of him, holding the hilt with both hands, and let his death magic unfurl behind him like black wings. When he raised his head, his eyes were two burning pits of hell. “This isn’t personal either.”
As one, the three men attacked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BLINDING pain exploded in Alex’s head as though someone had rammed icicles under her skin. She jerked upright with a hoarse scream that changed into a pained yelp when the movement almost tore her shoulders from their joints.
Her lids fluttered. Bright light stabbed her eyes and she recoiled with a hiss, blink-blink-blinking while her pupils alternatingly constrained and dilated in an attempt to adjust to the lighting conditions.
“She’s coming around,” a cold voice said, sounding as if it came through a thick layer of cotton. “Again—just to be on the safe side.”
Another shot of icy cold splashed over her in a liquid cascade, pricking her skin with thousands of tiny needles and leaving her gasping and shivering in the frigid, stale air. Alex’s body instinctively tried to shy away from the wet, stinging sensation, but sharp metal dug into her limbs, holding her firmly in place.