By a Thread

by Nyna Queen

  He staggered to a sudden halt. Retched.

  Great Mother, what’s that smell?

  Gagging, he held his sleeve over his nose and mouth and half-ran, half-stumbled upward the hill whipped forward by a sudden apprehension. Crouching under a couple of trees, he crawled the last yards, peered through the branches … and gasped.

  The world careened, and he grabbed a root protruding out of the earth, leaned sideways and was violently sick.

  The hollow caws of ravens echoed over from the woods, as they circled above the bloody feast that was served in the meadow beyond, the sound sending shiver after shiver over his arms.

  The informant unbent, oblivious to the stains of vomit clinging to his chin and shirt front, and stared at the gruesome battlefield drowning in the blood-red glow of the sinking sun that was about to vanish behind the hills: pulverized chunks of bones mixed with blood spiraled outward from the smashed remains of what had once been two sturdy coaches—as if something had exploded right in their middle, ripping everything apart with the violence of its rage. And he knew the name of that bomb, new the handwriting too well not to recognize its bloody signature.

  Darken Forfeit!

  Clumsily working himself to his feet, the informant stumbled and slithered down the hill-slope, blinking through the acid tears pricking at his eyes.

  His feet sank in the red slush and the bloody maze blurred in front of him. No need to look for survivors. There would be none. Not when a forfeit stepped onto the killing edge.

  And the children …

  Oh, great Mother, the children!

  With a wail, he broke to his knees beside the spokes of a wheel, picking up a bloody shred of a child's sleeve and pressed it to his chest.

  “Oh, Darken,” he whispered, as hot tears streamed down his face. “What have you done?”

  THE ground came at them hard and fast, hitting the underside of Darken’s feet with enough force to jar his teeth. Pain lashed his ankles as if he’d jumped from a too high ledge and landed badly. He staggered, trying to shield Alex from the worst of the impact while regaining his own footing.

  Cracks spread in the gray flagstone under their feet, as the ground trembled with the aftershocks of their appearance.

  Familiar ground. Helton Manor. They’d made it!

  Beside him, Max keened over and vomited into the closest flowerpot.

  A high-pitched scream rang through the inner courtyard and then something shattered on the dark stones.

  Elsbeth, Helton’s head maid was standing close to the patio door, staring at them from wide, shocked eyes, hands cupped in front of her chest as if she was still holding on to the tray that lay in shambles at her feet.

  “M-master Darken,” she squeaked, “… M-miss Josepha …”

  Her eyes flickered to the bundle wrapped in Darken’s arms, to the blood dripping down to the stones, and her round face turned ashen. “W-what in the great Mother’s name—”

  “Not now!” Darken’s voice rolled through the yard like deep thunder. He knew his eyes were on fire.

  The portly woman moaned and stumbled back against the door, one hand pressed to her ample bosom while hectic flush mottled her skin. Despite her proportions, she looked like a small, plump rabbit cowering in front of a half-starved wolf. It reminded him that all of the household servants feared him, even when his temper was leashed—well, with one exception perhaps.

  Her display of fear was like another blow to his already chipped armor. He felt the dark river well inside him, surging to a dangerous tide.

  In that moment, he hated her. Hated her because her fear was driving him back to the killing edge he’d just barely left. Hated her, because any moment now he would kill her and that would be a death neither his niece and nephew nor he himself would be able to forgive.

  His magic licked at the stones to his feet, dark whispers of night and fire, hungry for a victim. The red mist flooded his vision, clouding his mind, clouding his judgment and corrupting his soul.

  Josy stepped forward and put a cool hand on his forearm.

  Strangely, that touch, that little gesture, was enough to push the lever on his frail control, before he did something deeply regrettable. She trusted him, even when he was loose. That knowledge gave him the strength he needed to hold the leash on his temper.

  His niece gave him a short glance, before focusing her attention on the elderly woman. “Elsbeth, we need hot water and fresh towels in the blue guest room on the first floor.” It was the closest room with a bed, he realized. “As well as the herb pouch from my room—the small bag with the pink butterflies on it.” She considered for a second. “And all the amplifying crystals you can come by off the cuff.”

  The maid stared at his niece as if she’d never seen her before.

  “Now, Elsbeth.” Josy’s voice was still quiet, but there was a silent command in her tone, that snapped the older woman out of her stupor.

  “Y-yes, Miss.” Bobbing her head, she teetered and hurried off to do as asked, yelling at the top of her lungs for the rest of the household staff.

  Josepha turned those solemn eyes back on Darken. “Follow me. Quickly.”

  Unable to focus on anything but her back, Darken trailed her through the mansion, holding on to himself with every fiber of his being.

  Doors passed by him, familiar objects and sights, but he didn't see any of it, as if he’d stepped into a long, dark tunnel forged by his own fear and fury. He followed the glowing beacon along corridors and up a flight of stairs, unaware of anything but the pulse flickering, flickering beneath his fingertips, the heartbeat at his chest that was getting weaker and weaker.

  Still alive, but barely.

  The irony was so sharp it hurt: the one soul he didn’t want to reap was hovering on the edge in front of him, taunting him, calling to him to finish what the men in the woods had started.

  He tightened his grip on her body, letting the feel of her weight anchor him in the sane world.

  Stay with me, he prayed with feverish desperation, while he kept his raging magic locked tightly in the cage of his body. Please, stay with me.

  An open door loomed before him.

  “Put her down. On the bed, please.”

  Resistance to let go of his precious cargo, battled with the voice of reason telling him he needed to let go in order to help her.

  “Uncle.”

  Clenching his teeth, he gently lowered Alex on the white stretch of fabric and took a small step back.

  A pair of scissors appeared in Josy’s hand. The tattered remains of Alex’s clothes fell away, leaving her completely naked.

  A lump of pain swelled in Darken’s throat at the sight of the full extent of the destruction they had caused on her body. She was still beautiful, in a crude, twisted way; her skin, what little of it wasn’t smeared with blood, had turned so alabaster white that it barely set itself apart from the sheets, while dark blue and black veins mottled her snowy limbs—the pattern of her shaper skin shining through the damaged expanse of her human shell.

  So much damage! How could anyone survive so much damage?

  Darken’s fists clenched so hard his bones rubbed together, as he stared at the battlefield her body had become, faintly aware of the shocked gasps and whispers of the maids that finally arrived with steaming water bowls and the requested utensils. Their voices floated around him, but he was caught in a bubble of furious silence, with rage shutting out everything that wasn't Alex.

  There was hardly a part of her that wasn’t bruised, sliced or in another way brutalized. Cuts crisscrossed their way up and down her body, like violent strokes of an exuberant artist on the pale canvas of her skin.

  Not to kill, he realized with sickening clarity as he took notice of each wound, he, the connoisseur of brutality. To hurt. To maim. Pain deliberately inflicted to make her suffer.

  They had tortured her, and they had reveled in her pain before delivering the killing blow.

  The room drowned in crimson rage. Hea
t whipped through him and his nails dug into his skin as blood streaked his view like the smears of blood on Alex’s skin. Sweet, sweet burning darkness.

  “Uncle Darken.”

  Those men in the clearing had died too quickly. He’d killed them all and they had suffered. But not enough. Not enough for this!

  “Darken!”

  He wanted to go return to the clearing and revive them just to call in the debt. Wanted to—

  “DARKEN!”

  Josepha’s sharp voice yanked him out of the abyss of his dark cravings. Her face floated in front of him, the only clear thing in the swirling mist that was claiming his mind, her calm eyes boring into his.

  “No ill emotions at a sick bed,” she said quietly but firmly.

  In the last minutes, she seemed to have aged by years. There was no trace of fear or doubt left. All breathed away by the overpowering need to heal, consumed by the calmness only a real healer could muster in order to help her patient when everyone else wanted to run around screaming and trying to tear out their hair. No wavering. No hesitation. It was hard to believe he was looking at the same girl who usually shied from her own shadow.

  “Go.” She gently nudged him toward the door. “There is nothing you can do for her now.”

  The bitter truth of her worlds lashed at his heart. She was right. He couldn’t help her. Oh, he could kill and hurt just fine himself, but when it came to easing someone’s pain … He closed his eyes. All he could do was watch powerlessly as she slipped away from him.

  Josy gripped his hand, strong and soothing. Even now she was giving him comfort, when he, the adult, should be the one spending it.

  Her eyes held too much understanding. “You and Max, you have done your part—now let me do mine.”

  With that, she swept back to Alex’s side and started giving instructions to the maids to arrange the crystals around Alex.

  Magic rose, soft and gentle.

  He couldn’t watch. Couldn’t be close if she …

  Unable to finish that thought, Darken fled from the sickroom.

  His feet moved on their own accord, sweeping through the mansion.

  All the servants he passed shrunk away from him, hiding behind the next available door. He barely noticed them, static noise at the edge of his wavering perception.

  Somehow his feet found their way back to the inner courtyard. He burst outside and gulped the cool, sweet evening air, pacing the length of the stones like a caged predator.

  His body was trembling from the strain to contain the impotent fury boiling inside him that wanted to explode outward in a wave of physical destruction.

  He would lose her. The knowledge rippled through him like a jagged blade.

  Who was he kidding? Nobody could heal that much damage. It simply wasn’t possible.

  He would lose her—and he didn’t even know if he’d ever had her in the first place.

  He’d barely had time to get to know her and yet, there had been … something between them. A connection. A thread.

  This stubborn, obscene, spirited woman made his blood churn like no other woman ever had. She stood up to him and refused to be impressed by both his caste and his pedigree. Instead, she saw the man behind all the layers and masks and somehow, she’d managed to touch something inside him he hadn’t even known existed.

  And now he would lose her before he had a chance to find out what could grow from this tiny seed. Because he hadn’t been there in time to save her.

  The fury built and built inside him, ripping at his soul. With a howl of anguish, he spun around and hammered his fist into the nearest wall. Cracks shot out from the center of the punch like a broken spiderweb with the spider crushed in the middle—a reminder of another broken spider hanging by a silken thread.

  Plaster rained down in tiny white flakes.

  Shaking, he dropped against the wall and sank to the floor, pressing his head against his arms.

  Above him in the house, someone started to scream.

  The story of Alex and Darken continues in WEB OF LIES, Book Two of the Trueborn Heirs Series.

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  Nyna Queen started reading fantasy books at the sweet age of six (in fact, as soon as she could read) and never got out of it.

  After she finished her law degree, she committed herself to a career as an author. When she isn't reading a book or dreaming up another story, she works as a lawyer, indulges in way too much coffee and enjoys long walks in the sun.

  If you are looking for Nyna, you'll likely find her behind her laptop, hitting the keys, writing down her latest novel ideas—careful, if you speak to her now, she might not remember later!

  Right at this moment, Nyna is probably working on the second book in her Trueborn Heirs Series: WEB OF LIES.