Nightborn: Totally addictive fantasy fiction (The Hollow King Book 2)

by Jessica Thorne

  ‘No one is asking you to. But… at least talk to him.’

  It wasn’t going to stop. Grace wasn’t going to get any peace. Everyone would tell her to talk to him, she knew that. Everyone.

  And in the end…

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Daniel from the doorway. Eavesdropping. Because everything in her life seemed to be on public view these days. But at least Daniel was on her side. That was something. ‘Grace, I’ll lock him up for the duration of the voyage if you want. I’ll stand guard here too if that’s what you’d prefer. I can throw him over the side, but he’d probably just control the sea and walk after us.’

  It shouldn’t make her smile. But it did.

  ‘Probably not necessary, Danny.’ It gave her what she needed, the sense of normality to their conversation. It grounded her and she drew in a breath before she looked at Rynn again. ‘All right. Tell him I’ll talk to him. But not here.’

  Not alone, she wanted to add, and hated herself for it.

  That was how she found herself up on the foredeck, the wind blowing the shadows out of her head. There was no sign of land ahead of them yet. No sign of the Valenti Islands behind either, and for that she was grateful.

  What was going on back there? Grace couldn’t shake off the echo of what she’d experienced there. Not just Bastien’s attack, although that was bad enough. But reaching into the emptiness inside her, finding the magic she needed to make the antidote with Rynn, the bleak black place that power had come from. And she still didn’t know what she had done to make sure they escaped. She had been lost in the moment, in combat, in action. Like something else had taken over.

  She was afraid of what she had felt. The sense that it was right. Just.

  Danny and Ellyn promised they’d watch from a distance and they were as good as their words, waiting for her by the steps to the foredeck.

  She didn’t trust Bastien. And that scared her more than anything else.

  A curly-haired boy leaned on the bow rail, staring ahead, and Grace could feel the shimmer of magic in the air around him. She could almost see it, like a heat haze, and she recalled how once, back in Rathlynn, Bastien had helped her see the tethers of magic binding the mageborn. She could almost do that by herself now. This boy was a Zephyr and he was taking them away from the Valenti Islands as fast as he could.

  ‘Oh, sorry, ma’am… I didn’t see you there.’

  He’d turned, staring at her in something akin to wonder. What had he heard? The sailors were all gossiping, she knew that. She’d be a fool to think otherwise.

  If she never set foot on those islands again, she could die happy.

  But she doubted that would happen. Maybe the first part but definitely not the second.

  The boy was still staring at her.

  ‘It’s okay. I need somewhere quiet,’ she told him.

  ‘It’s good for that, up here, the quiet. For thinking. That’s what the captain says.’ He gave a bow, not as well practised as all the ones she’d seen in Iliz, but far more honest. ‘I’m Larne Pardue. She’s my aunt… the captain, I mean. Captain Pardue. You’re the one they’re all talking about, aren’t you? The captain from Rathlynn.’

  ‘A different kind of captain,’ she told him, bemused. The boy smiled at her without a care in the world.

  ‘They said that too. Like no one else, they said. His true love.’

  Is that what they were saying? Grace had no need to ask who he was. The mageborn all seemed to refer to Bastien in that tone of voice. Awe. Wonder. It was rather confusing to hear herself referred to in the same way.

  She folded her hands behind her back. ‘I don’t know what I am. Not any more.’

  He just grinned at her, his young eyes so very bright and full of faith. ‘It’s going to be all right, ma’am. I’m sure of it.’

  Then he skipped on by, the breeze rippling behind him. A little Brindish child from a land of sun and spices. Nothing more. But his faith was so strong it left Grace speechless.

  She would have liked to say she sensed Bastien approach, that her instincts warned her and her years of work and training had honed her ears to hear things others couldn’t, but she didn’t. Suddenly, he was there, behind her.

  ‘Grace?’

  His voice was so soft, so hesitant, that for a moment she thought it was part of the wind in the sails, or the creaking of timbers.

  ‘Bastien.’ It wasn’t much by way of a reply. Perhaps she should have thought about it, found something witty or cutting, some perfect phrase to put him in his place.

  ‘Grace, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You couldn’t help it. It wasn’t your fault.’ They were the right words to say but she felt as if she was just parroting them off because she was meant to say that. Wasn’t she? And objectively, it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t help it. But that didn’t help her.

  Bastien wasn’t managing any better than she was.

  ‘I should have fought harder. I should have been able to resist. It’s—’

  ‘Even as a god, you weren’t able to withstand the effects of that drug, Bastien.’ She sighed, leaning forward on the rail, taking almost her full weight on her arms. It took her mind off everything else. Just for a moment. The sea rushed by beneath her, crashing on either side of the bow.

  ‘But still…’ he said. He didn’t touch her, though she could sense his need to do so.

  ‘So Asher Kane got what he always wanted,’ Grace said. ‘To hurt us. No, to hurt you. I was collateral damage.’

  He tried again, divinities bless him. ‘I never meant to—’

  Finally she relented. Just a little. ‘I know that.’

  ‘The marriage isn’t even—’

  ‘I know that too. Rynn explained.’

  ‘Am I allowed to at least finish a sentence?’ The irritation in his voice was real. It was much easier to deal with. She was about to tell him that when he went on and the tone was different – apologetic, tender, and careful once more. ‘May I see?’

  She didn’t have to ask him what he needed to see. Closing her eyes so tightly she saw spots against the darkness, Grace swallowed hard and then turned to face him, leaning on the rail now, her arms out on either side. She let her head tilt back slightly, exposing her bruised throat to him, letting him feast his eyes on the full extent of what he had done.

  When she could bring herself to look, the expression of agony on his face made her stomach twist inside her. She knew Bastien, knew him better than she had ever known anyone else. He couldn’t believe he could have done such a thing, not to her. He gave a choked cry. ‘Oh, Grace… I – I’m sorry.’

  Her voice came out gentler this time, less accusatory. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘But it was. That’s who you saw, who you felt… My hands, my strength. Grace, I – I can’t—’

  Part of her wanted to punch him again, to inflict on him what he had inflicted on her. But the rest of her couldn’t have hurt him, not any more than he was already hurting. She couldn’t move anyway.

  ‘You left me, Bastien.’

  ‘I never meant to.’

  What could she say to that? It was the truth. She believed him, and she had stopped him, saved him. And now…

  She let out a long sigh and it was like a weight lifting from her.

  ‘Don’t… don’t do it again.’

  The anguish he wore on his face bled into his voice. ‘Never. I swear it. Never again.’

  She frowned at him, waiting for him to touch her, to say something… anything else. In the past, he would have wrapped her in his arms, held her close, and she would have let him because he always made her feel better. ‘May I?’ he asked at last.

  Confused, she shook her head. ‘May you what?’

  ‘I promised never to touch you without your permission once. I should have kept that promise. I should always have… Grace, I’ll do anything, anything you want to make it up to you, to show you…’ His voice shook. ‘To show you that I wouldn’t hurt you like that wit
hout – I don’t know – outside influence. But if you need me to stay away, or—’

  She had to be brave here. She owed him that at least. He was flailing, lost. Her cool and caustic Lord of Thorns, her always-in-control Bastien – but he hadn’t been in control this time. Bastien didn’t even trust himself any more. Asher Kane had stolen that from him too. And if Bastien wouldn’t trust himself, Grace would have to do it for him.

  ‘Do you want to?’ she asked, afraid of the answer.

  ‘Stay away?’ He looked horrified. ‘No, but – how can you bear for me to—?’

  ‘Bastien,’ she sighed, his name her prayer. She reached out a hand, ashamed of how it shook, but when he didn’t move to take it, that made it somehow much worse. She let it drop. ‘I saw you, your face, but it wasn’t you. I don’t know who that was. It may have looked like you, but it – your eyes…’ She gazed up into his eyes now, so deep and dark, but so warm. Endless. She would gladly lose herself in those eyes and never be found. His eyes had not been like this in the palace, when he had attacked her. They had been cold and hard, the eyes of someone else. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder and his muscles tightened beneath her touch. ‘We’ll take things slowly,’ she said.

  His hand came up and wrapped around hers. His touch. Actually his touch this time. His tenderness.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve ever managed to take anything slowly, Grace,’ he told her with a rueful smile. He almost looked and sounded like himself again.

  Her heart gave a lurch, though she couldn’t quite fathom why. ‘We’ll try.’

  Grace wrapped her arms around him, held him again. His head bent down over hers, his cheek resting on top of her head. She could feel his breath, the movement of his chest. She stroked his back, the lines and angles of his body better known to her than those of any other man.

  The drug had transformed him into someone else. There was no other word for it. Had that happened to him every time? Did she really even know the man she loved?

  But despite everything, she didn’t doubt that she still loved him.

  Shame washed through his eyes. ‘I – I wasn’t strong enough.’

  He’d loved another girl once, and the Larelwynns had stolen that from him, making him drink lyriana root until he forgot she ever existed. Grace had always wondered if he had really loved the woman who became Mother Miranda, whose pain and hatred had made her into a monster. Now she knew it didn't matter if he had or not. He would never know. That damned potion.

  ‘Come with me,’ she told him, and led him below decks, back to the cabin.

  She closed the door behind them.

  ‘Come here,’ she said.

  ‘Grace?’ His soft, dark voice made something in her tremble. Not in a bad way. Not this time.

  He stepped into her arms and she tilted her face up to his. He bent forward, kissed her, gently at first, a brush of the lips. And he sighed.

  ‘I could have lost you today.’

  ‘I did lose you.’ She bowed her head, pressing her forehead into his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat. ‘Bastien… You could lose me any day. You are eternal, aren’t you? It will happen eventually.’

  ‘You found your magic again, to make the antidote.’ He didn’t look happy about it though. If anything he looked concerned.

  The warrant against her turned cold and she remembered the words of the Loam in the garden, the woman possessed by the Deep Dark.

  If you just had the courage to reach out and seize it. It’s waiting for you.

  But it hadn’t been courage that made her reach for it. It had been fear. It had been desperation, the very thing which turned mageborn to nightborn.

  ‘We have to get to Thorndale,’ Bastien said, his voice more certain now, more sure. Divinities, Grace wanted him to be sure. She wanted to cling to that. Thorndale might be the answer, if they could make it there. The Maegen, the source of magic, the seat of Bastien’s power… he’d find a way. She knew that. If Bastien Larelwynn put his mind to it, he could do anything. He just… he didn’t look so sure right now. ‘I’ve lost too many people. I can’t lose you, Grace.’

  He could, but she didn’t want to say that. That emptiness inside her, the cold emanating from the warrant… a thousand other things could tear them apart.

  She pushed the image that taunted her in her mind, of him bearing down on her, of his hands around her throat. Of the stranger behind his eyes, the man she didn’t know any more.

  For a moment every instinct screamed at her to pull back, to push him away and defend herself. But if she did that, she really would lose him and Asher would finally win outright. Forever.

  Grace lifted her face, gazed into his eyes, tried to smile. It was wavering and unsure, but it was all she could manage. The stranger wasn’t there any more. It was only Bastien. Only her Bastien. And he looked so worried.

  ‘Grace,’ he whispered and his lips brushed against hers. ‘Grace, it will be okay. I promise.’ He couldn’t promise that, not really, but right now she didn’t care.

  His kiss deepened, and he framed her face in his hands. Every time, she forgot how gentle he was. How perfectly gentle. He was so strong, so powerful in every way, but when he touched her, when he held her and loved her, he seemed afraid he might break her.

  Grace pushed his shirt open and teased across his chest with her kisses. Bastien bit out a gasp but didn’t move.

  ‘I could lose you too,’ she told him. ‘Maybe not to death, but in so many ways. To Rynn. To Aurelie. To someone else.’ To Thorndale and the Deep Dark, but she didn’t dare say that. She paused, contemplating that. Technically she had already lost him. He was someone else’s husband. But she couldn’t think about that, not now. She didn’t want to. Perhaps it was selfish. She wanted him. She wanted him to be hers again.

  He kissed the top of her head, then lifted her effortlessly and sat her on the bed. Even his strength was tempered with that gentleness. That was what had been missing from him when he was that other man. She understood now.

  The bed wasn’t large or even terribly comfortable. The cabin was neat and functional. But she didn’t need anything more. Nothing but him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

  She knew what he was asking. ‘Yes.’

  Bastien helped her shed her clothes, following each touch with a kiss. He worshipped her and, for once, she let him.

  The boat rocked gently and Grace lay back beneath his kisses, his caresses, his tender touch. He bowed over her body, his mouth on her skin, making her gasp his name until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  ‘Bastien,’ she whispered, hardly able to form the word.

  ‘Are you sure? Grace, after what I did—’

  ‘It wasn’t you. Remember?’

  Bastien rose over her, his body a pale gold in this light and beautiful, the lines like those of a sculpture, a god. She reached for him, pulled him down, claiming his mouth, his body. Making him hers again. Just hers. If only for a little while.

  He was everything to her. Everything.

  And he almost drove the shadows away.

  Almost.

  Chapter 17

  The screaming had been going on for hours. Kurt had locked the door because there was nothing else he could do at this stage. The girl wasn’t coming out anyway and her family were already traumatised. When the flames came, licking under the gap beneath the door, turning the whole room into an incinerator, he just stood there, praying. He didn’t even know who he was praying to.

  The screaming eventually trailed off to sobs and coughs and then… Silence ate away at the air around him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. How could he still be breathing?

  It wasn’t fair.

  It took an hour before the door was cool enough to touch, let alone open. He didn’t want to. It took him a full ten minutes more to work up the nerve to do it.

  The smell almost knocked him from his feet. Nothing remained inside. Nothing. Only ash.

  ‘The iron held then?’
Melia’s voice came out of nowhere, making him jump and turn, ready for an attack. When he saw his second in command silhouetted in the doorway leading back to the inn, he relaxed a little.

  ‘Just about,’ he replied. ‘Poor kid didn’t… well, she wasn’t getting out.’

  It wasn’t exactly a smile. More like a grimace. It passed over Melia’s face like a ghost. ‘You couldn’t have let her out. She’d have taken all of Eastferry with her, if not the whole city.’

  He sighed, leaning on the door frame, staring at the blackened iron-plated interior. It was a furnace, or as near to a furnace as they could make.

  Behind Melia, Syl cleared his throat. ‘But it held,’ he said after a moment. He looked appalled, as if he hadn’t really put two and two together about what he had designed until this moment.

  Syl was a fully trained Atelier. He’d left the job, as he liked to tell anyone who would listen, for a carefree life of prostitution. But he had talent and skill. Kurt hadn’t appreciated how much until now.

  ‘Yeah, Syl. It held. Couldn’t have asked for more.’

  The mageborn kids they’d broken out of the dungeons helped where they could, looking for nightborn, trapping them, but they were only Academy cadets to begin with, nowhere near fully trained in their powers yet, green and inexperienced, not to mention traumatised. Kurt couldn’t ask them to risk themselves.

  ‘The Master Atelier could have done more,’ Syl muttered and turned away.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Melia told him. ‘Even if we could find him—’

  ‘He’s in there. I know it. They took him from the Academy, but they didn’t kill him. They wouldn’t dare. The cadets told me. Aurelie tried to use them to break him.’

  ‘I gave you all the time I could to search when the royal bitch was trying to threaten me,’ Kurt interrupted. ‘You were meant to be distracting her, if I recall.’

  Syl smiled his lazy, sultry smile, the one that worked on almost everyone, and his dark eyes glittered. ‘She was plenty distracted until you turned up, then you were all she could think of. Maybe we should have switched places. Or don’t you whore for Eastferry?’