Veil of Thorns

by Gwen Mitchell

  “Hope she’s all right,” Joanne answered in a somewhat bewildered tone.

  She stared after him as he bumped down the uneven road as fast as he could go with an injured bird in the back. He sighed in relief once she was out of sight. With the heat on full blast, morning just starting to crawl into the sky, and Smoke giving him the silent treatment, Corvin had the rest of the ride home to ruminate on what an idiot he was.

  An attractive, available woman who shared his love of animals wanted his attention. She didn’t seem to be asking for anything more than company, and was definitely worthy of much more.

  He was incapable of even that.

  He just couldn’t bring himself to lie to a woman to get her into bed, and there was no way around the lying. As much as he’d like to believe that someday he’d meet someone special enough to learn what he was and accept his way of life, history had proven that hope fairly pointless. No one in the Synod took him seriously, and every outsider he’d ever told had ended up missing a chunk of time from her memories.

  A steamy affair wasn’t worth the guilt, and a real relationship wasn’t an option. Flirting and indulging useless notions that things could be otherwise were just a frustrating waste of time.

  As they drove over the outermost wards of the Arcanum, Smoke clicked his beak in rapid succession. Corvin leaned forward and glanced up through the windshield to see two trails of shadow crisscross overhead like grease stains on the lavender sky. He turned off the wider drive onto his private road. Just a trail, really, a seldom-traveled one.

  He liked it that way.

  As he passed through his outer wards, the ferns grew taller, the trees larger and closer together, the underbrush thicker. The road narrowed further, but as he approached, the plants leaned out of his way like a vertiginous curtain drawing back to welcome him home.

  The Hohlwen followed behind him, streaking from tree to tree across their normal territory but then also all the way across the inner wards of his sanctuary. Corvin ground his teeth as he pulled up to his tower and found his way blocked by a hulking figure that could give the Rover a run for its money. Where the fallen “hollow ones” were made of mist and shadow, the half-demon Kinde seemed stronger than stone and older than dirt. Some of them probably were.

  Smoke gurgled low in excitement.

  Corvin rolled his eyes and lowered the window. “Traitor.”

  Smoke hopped across his arms and flew directly to their unexpected guest, who appeared not to notice when the raven alighted on his shoulder and pecked his ear affectionately.

  Though he didn’t mind seeing Roderic under normal circumstances, Corvin had an extremely damaged patient who needed immediate attention, and the appearance of his mother’s personal guard never boded well for his plans. He tried to roll some of the tension from his shoulders, then tightened his gauntlets and slid out of the truck. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

  Roderic followed him to the back of the vehicle, his normal stern mask in place, meaty forearms folded in front of the barrel he called a chest. “You never have time.”

  Corvin sighed and lifted the crate and its precious cargo to nose level, knowing the old wolf would scent the blood and fear pouring off the animal, maybe even the death hovering. “This is an emergency.”

  The corners of Roderic’s mouth pulled down. His dark gaze darted from the crate to Corvin and back. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine. I’ll tell her to wait if you agree to come immediately after you tend to your emergency.”

  “Deal.” Corvin shuffled toward the door of his tower.

  Roderic shut the back hatch and jogged after him. Smoke gave an annoyed caw.

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “Of course not,” Roderic said, the laughter in his eyes at odds with the grim tension in his face. He reached the door first and held it open. “And no thanks necessary.”

  Corvin paused on the bottom step and glanced into the treetops, at the shadows hovering there. There were no visible signs of the eyes he could feel watching him. He turned away and spoke as he scaled the first few stairs. “Next time, leave your pets at home—they scare the vermin to ground and then my birds go hungry.”

  The door closed silently behind him, and he climbed the spiral steps two at a time. The chittering of the mews hushed as he passed the second level. Smoke met him at the third-floor window, which he assumed meant their guest had left.

  Not many people could get away with talking to a captain of the Kinde guard that way. Even fewer would walk away from that conversation on the winning end. If stalling another one of his mother’s orations could be considered winning.

  Roderic only tolerated his coarseness because the immortal, half-demon warrior felt sorry for him—the soul born with the Wright family legacy cleaved unto his unwilling shoulders. Coming from a long line of powerful and influential witches, Corvin had been expected to join the Synod and perpetuate that esteem as a notable scribe, warrior, or politician.

  Growing up, he’d idolized his mother’s stoic bodyguard. Roderic had taught him how to fight, the meaning of valor, honor, and duty. When others had treated him as a pariah, Roderic had helped Corvin learn to control his magic and, most importantly, himself. He’d been Corvin’s only playmate during the endless years of studying that had plagued his youth. But just as he’d come into his powers, the wool spun over his eyes had finally worn thin. Corvin’s distaste for the machinations of the Synod Councils and the way they treated those in their service overcame his desire to serve and impress. His particular gifts had made him a prime candidate for espionage and manipulation, but his conscience had not.

  So he’d settled for a middle ground and taken on the formal—if only ceremonial—office of falconer. Historically, the birds had been used for hunting, delivering messages, or as an alarm system and form of surveillance. The councils had once relied on them, and they had been a respected use of magic. Now, there were not only a host of immortals at the Synod’s command, but also computers, e-mail, and cameras. Birds were outdated as messengers, and his job was viewed as no more than a quirky hobby or preservation of history, which suited him fine.

  Many times his mother had sent Roderic as her emissary to bring Corvin back into the fold. She relished the idea of the shared power she could wield with her son by her side. Despite it going against Corvin’s very nature, Roderic had beseeched him to reconsider, to fall into line and do as his mother asked. It was then that Corvin had realized his bond with Roderic had been a farce. The man had cared for him because he’d had to. Because duty had called. Because Patricia Wright, head of the most powerful Synod Council in the West, had ordered it.

  Because he had no father to speak of, his mother had given him a slave.

  He’d said as much the last time Roderic had tried to deter him from his chosen profession, years ago. The schism that had opened between them that day had never fully healed, but it had scabbed over. As long as Roderic didn’t try to intervene between Corvin and his mother, the two of them got along well enough. Still, he preferred the company of birds. No secret agendas or unreasonable expectations, just the simple rituals of daily life and the freedom gifted to only the most homesick of souls—flight.

  As he rounded the last of the stairwell, Corvin summoned the memory of the airy joy that flight evoked. He channeled that energy into the injured eagle as a sort of psychic adrenaline shot. Her feelings snapped into sharp focus for him as she regained awareness of her environment, taking in the scents and sounds of the hundreds of birds that filled the mews. He ducked into the kitchen, which also served as the pantry, lab, library, and ICU.

  The crate fit in a tiny cleared nook of the oak dining table. Corvin moved about quietly for a few minutes, allowing the eagle to adjust to her surroundings. After lighting some calming incense, he gathered supplies. When ready, he stripped off his leather gauntlets and put on a pair of rubber gloves. The she-eagle did not panic as he approached this time.

  He lif
ted the thick bundle out of the crate as if moving in slow motion, very careful not to jar her, and laid her gently down on the tabletop. She didn’t struggle or squirm as he unwrapped her, and when she allowed his touch, Corvin made a true connection with her for the first time.

  Safe.

  The eagle quivered beneath his hand.

  Friend, he thought, and when he felt her accept the truth written in his heart, he went to work. His foremost concern was blood loss. Damaged feathers were like broken needles still lodged in a vein. He had to remove each one at the base and then cover the wounds with a cauterizing salve.

  She cried, long and hard and heart chokingly. Each scream made the blood well up anew, and he knew he had to work faster. He couldn’t hold back, even for pity’s sake. He absorbed as much of the pain as he could, trying to ease her burden. Sweat was dripping into his eyes by the time he finished. Once bandaged, re-wrapped, and bundled, the eagle fell almost instantly to sleep. He had to keep tapping her beak to wake her up to swallow the potion he forced down her crop.

  After he finally tucked her in to rest, Corvin collapsed into one of his leather armchairs. Smoke clicked his beak approvingly from his perch by the window and then hopped onto the chairback before landing on Corvin’s shoulder.

  Click. Click.

  Corvin lifted one eyebrow. Even that seemed an enormous expenditure of energy. He’d channeled a lot of magic into his patient. He glanced through the grimy window at the steadily brightening day and yawned. “That was too damn close.”

  Smoke bobbed in agreement and pecked him on the neck.

  “Yes, I know. I’m only resting a minute.” He dozed for two or three and considered returning to the bed he’d been roused from far too early. Smoke pecked again and hopped away, ever the incessant alarm clock. One had no need for a good memory with a raven around.

  Corvin rubbed his face and swept his unruly hair back, tying it with a scrap of suede.

  Though he would not disrespect tradition enough to leave his robe behind, he donned his gauntlets under the billowing black sleeves and left the hood down, showing off the bits of carved bone and feathers adorning his good side. He left the scars marring his right brow and cheek in full view. That way, either side of his face would pain Patricia, both bearing reminders of his deviation and her failure at motherhood. In case that wasn’t enough, he always carried his staff with him inside the Arcanum—an old tradition among falconers and a sign of his chosen station. A station his mother abhorred.

  Smoke rode on his shoulder as they cut a path through the woods directly to the fortress. The foliage opened up before them and then closed again, allowing Corvin to tread silently. The buzzing of the insects and the gurgling of the nearby spring could be heard over his footsteps. But the underbrush was more quiet than usual.

  Damn Hohlwen. Just their presence sucked the life out of a place and left an unearthly stillness in its wake. Corvin let out a shaky breath, outrage banked in his throat at the audacity of his mother to send the hollow ones into his sanctuary. Their taint would infuse the energy of the place for days. He chewed on whether he should say something about it and risk bringing down his mother’s litany of criticism.

  The brush thinned as he crossed the Arcanum’s outer wards. He walked between trunks as wide as he was tall. They stood in wisps of fog that might linger all day. The thick, loamy scent of the moss and mushroom carpet filled his lungs. He savored it for only a second, and then the back of his neck prickled. High above, shadows gathered like a gossamer web, filtering the already meager sunlight. The eyes of the Synod, always watching.

  He lengthened his stride.

  The entrance at the eastern tower came into view, both torches lit to signal free entry. Inside the outer fortress walls, he met the sweet tang of crabapple and marigold, familiar scents from his childhood. Smoke flew to a nearby yew tree and pecked at some berries as Corvin crossed the courtyard to the inner doors—ten-foot panels of pounded, scribed copper, also lit with two torches. They swung open as he approached.

  Two Kinde guards stood as sentries inside, silent and yet imposing in their customary tailored black suits. Corvin tapped his staff twice on the marble floor, calling to Smoke, already thinking he would simply take his mother’s advice, whatever it was this time, so he could go back to bed as soon as possible.

  The thought of soft sheets and a cozy blanket evaporated when an alarm sounded—three short wolf howls in quick succession. His shoulders slumped. He’d momentarily forgotten about the new recruits and the ensuing circus. Rest would be hard-won the next few days, peace and quiet a mere memory.

  The guards beside him snapped to attention, startling Corvin, but then neither of them moved another muscle. They stared ahead with completely blank expressions. Something had always rubbed him wrong about the way Kinde had to follow orders to the letter, even against their better judgment.

  Giving the one on his right an annoyed look, he clacked his staff again, louder. Why did he spend so much time waiting around for that good-for-nothing featherbrain?

  A door down the hall slammed open, and a confusing puzzle of body parts burst through it, some rolling, some sprawling, some running. Some running directly at him…

  Corvin blinked, looked to the guards on either side of him, and barely had time to throw one hand up as a blur of grungy cotton and wheat-gold hair bowled him over.

  His staff clattered to the floor. He landed flat on his ass out on the steps, with the back of his robe wrapped over his head. He stood, shaking the offending fabric away, to see his attacker streaking through the courtyard, leaping over bushes, rocks, and ponds rather than taking the circuitous cobbled path. Two wolves glided past him silently, barely disturbing the air, sleek black bodies gracefully eating up their quarry’s narrow lead.

  Before they could head her off, a streak of shadow arrowed out of the sky and flattened her. She went down hard, eating dirt.

  Bitterness filled Corvin’s mouth, and his sternum ached in sympathy. He picked up his staff.

  The Hohlwen who’d taken her down stood above the girl, his boot pressed tauntingly over her lower back as she struggled to get up. The wolves closed in on either side, and her horrified scream echoed off the walls of the keep, shriveling Corvin’s insides. He walked up to the overexcited beasts, uttering the low command to stand down.

  The wolves obeyed, but the Hohlwen sneered over his shoulder. He yanked the girl off the ground and gripped her by the back of her neck, shaking her like a doll. “The alarm was called. She was fair game.”

  Smoke chose that moment to come forward, issuing a guttural warning call as he landed on Corvin’s shoulder. The girl—no, woman—stared at him unblinking. Her crystal-blue eyes sparked with fury as a steady stream of blood dripped down her chin. Could have been from her scalp, nose, or lip. The rest of her was too covered in grime and bruises to tell much other than that she’d obviously been through hell.

  Corvin put the Wright tone of authority behind his next words. “Let her go.”

  The Hohlwen blinked his empty black eyes and smiled, all dazzle and false seduction. “Why should I? I’m just detaining her. Aren’t I, sweetheart?”

  He turned to face her, and she bashed in two of his startlingly white teeth. Black blood spurted. The Hohlwen backhanded her too fast for any defensive action, and her body toppled through the air and landed ten feet away. Corvin reached for the Hohlwen, but he faded into shadow and reappeared over the blond wildcat, lifting her by the throat as if she were made of paper and he could crush all the air out of her with a flick of his wrist. Her nails scratched seeping grooves in the Hohlwen’s flawless skin, and she landed a few solid kicks that made Corvin cringe.

  He had to admire her gusto, but her struggle weakened quickly as the Hohlwen sapped her energy, feeding on her life force, possibly intending to drain her to death.

  The wolves whimpered, chafing against Corvin’s command. He slammed his staff into the back of the Hohlwen’s skull. The girl fluttered to the
ground like an empty husk.

  Corvin spun the staff around his body once to gain some momentum, then whirled and put his full weight behind the next blow, which landed squarely in the Hohlwen’s stomach and knocked him off his feet just long enough for Corvin to mutter a word of power and charge the end of his staff with a stunning spell. He pointed it directly at the bastard’s chest.

  The Hohlwen rubbed the back of his head and brought his fingers away smeared with black ooze, which quickly smoked away. He flashed his teeth, which were already filling in the hole in the front. “I have killed men for less.”

  “I’ve seen your kind banished for less than that threat.”

  The Kinde whimpered again and then suddenly broke rank.

  Smoke cawed, announcing Roderic’s arrival.

  Corvin kept his staff trained on the Hohlwen. The immortal’s demeanor morphed into something less otherworldly and more composed as the captain of the guard approached.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Roderic asked, the twin black wolves trotting contentedly at his side.

  “I caught the girl after the alarm had been called, sir. She gave me quite the fight. Bird-boy didn’t like how I handled her.”

  Corvin scowled at the elegant, unconcerned expression on the Hohlwen’s perfectly blank face. He lowered his staff and looked Roderic directly in the eyes. “It’s true. I didn’t like it at all.”

  Roderic glanced from one to the other, expression utterly closed. They stood in silence, waiting for his judgment. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “What girl, exactly?”

  Corvin glanced at the spot where the wildcat had landed in a seemingly broken heap, then whirled on his heel toward the outer gate. She appeared to be lying facedown in the dewy grass at first, but after a moment he saw that she was… crawling. One painful inch at a time.

  “Perhaps we should secure her first,” Roderic said. The wolves’ ears pricked, and Corvin instinctively gripped his staff in a ready stance.

  “No.” He let out a deep breath and said, in a very reasonable tone, “I’ll get her.”