To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue and prowls closer. “Such a pretty lie. Under the carpet?” He flicks his sword into the air, then snatches it and points the tip at my face. “In that little hole you think is so well hidden?”

  Motherfucker.

  “Screw you.”

  He releases a dark, humorless laugh that boils my blood. “No, Orlaith. The sentiment points in the opposite direction.”

  Something inside me goes deadly still.

  He flashes a cruel, unmerciful grin. “But you live under my roof, and you will hand over the Exothryl.”

  No.

  I need it to bring me back from the dead every morning. To remind my body how to function after the anesthetizing balm I glug down night after night to ease my terrors into submission.

  It’s a delicate balance, and he’s snatching the pin that holds it all together, assuming he knows what’s best for me.

  He doesn’t.

  I launch, snarling, slicing through the air, letting all my rage and pain and pent-up hatred bubble to the surface as I swing and swing and swing—immune to the sound and the weight of this sword I hate so much.

  My vision narrows on his wide, quicksilver eyes ...

  In my mind, they’re black.

  They’re the eyes of those feral, circling creatures who choke my subconscious, because he’s restoring their power to ruin me.

  He dances back, smooth and dextral, like he’s reading every move before I decide to make it.

  I swing, he shifts.

  I swing, he shifts.

  My sword is an extension of my body, lashing at the man who’s standing between me and the pretty lie I paint over the jagged surface of my heart. And I don’t stop. Don’t relent.

  But neither does he.

  He’s just as hard, just as unbreakable as he always is, while my flesh yields for him every single day.

  I’m not seeing any effort to overcome your fears, and my string of patience is thinning. Fast.

  Something inside me snaps.

  A haunting sort of calm laces through my veins and sets like mortar, lining my insides with that concrete grace he wears so well.

  I blur.

  Leaping forward, I drag the tip of my sword through his top. The material splits like a severed wound, and I slam to a stop, sobering, the weapon slipping from my hand.

  My mouth falls open ... nothing comes out.

  I’ve wounded him.

  I stagger forward, splayed hands colliding with his warring chest, frantically peeling fabric back to inspect the damage.

  There is none.

  No cut exposing his insides ...

  No blood.

  Glancing up, I become hooked on his chilling stare, almost buckling under the weight of it.

  His heart is a hammer against my palm, his beat slow.

  Too slow.

  Whipping my hands away, I stumble back.

  He lifts a brow, drops his gaze to the bare skin exposed from my brutal strike, and grunts. Crushing the tattered material in his fist, he snaps his arm down, ripping the shirt right off his back and tossing it aside.

  I stare at him, unable to look away from the smooth slabs of muscle he’s made of—like every piece is a perfectly crafted stone. Stacked together, they form a work of art.

  He reminds me of my wall in Whispers, but instead of mortar holding him together, there are words. Delicate words I don’t recognize, the script stained silver like the ocean goes when the sky is crammed full of clouds. Lines yield and interact with the phrases, linking them, so if I were to transfer his body art to a sheet of parchment, every detail would be connected in some way.

  “Your tattoos,” I rasp, hand hovering in the space between us.

  An illuminated pulse is throbbing through the markings, as if they have their own entity.

  Their own soul.

  It’s a slow, sludgy beat I find myself timing my breaths to match ...

  Thud-ud.

  Thud-ud.

  Thud-ud.

  A wintry perusal scores across my face, luring me to seek the source.

  My hand drops.

  In those stony eyes I see more than just the hard man who stalks these halls and rules with a rigid regard.

  I see a predator. I see my own morose oblivion.

  He strikes.

  If I thought my movements were quick, I was kidding myself. He’s lightning—sharp and sporadic.

  Impulsive.

  There is no rhythm to his crippling lines. They’re all power and destruction, meant to maim and disable and kill.

  I swerve the advancing storm of his body, dodging blow after blow, retreating from wild, reflective eyes I don’t recognize. Steered further and further from my sword lying discarded on the ground.

  My back collides with stone, and he’s on me, his blade a cold line across my throat, our shared breath intoxicating in its own malignant way.

  My chest rises and falls in erratic bursts, mind racing. But though he has me caged between him and the wall with a death strike at my throat, something inside me has my chin lifting ...

  His upper lip curls back, exposing teeth I picture ripping into my neck.

  My gaze snags on them and struggles to unstick, until he growls low, weakening my knees, threatening to leave me hanging on the line of his sword.

  “That was—” my tongue darts out, tasting the icy air as I flounder. “You’re ...”

  Something flashes in his eyes, reminding me of a thunderstorm rolling off the ocean.

  The space between us shrinks. “I’m what, Orlaith?”

  Dangerous.

  There’s a cough, and my eyes chase the sound, though I can still feel the chilling brand of Rhordyn’s stare tacking me in place.

  “What?” he snaps.

  Baze, standing by the entry with his hands dug into his pockets, seems entirely unfazed by the fact that Rhordyn has me pinned against the wall with a killing blow at my throat. In truth, he looks far more amused with the glare I’m practically flaying him with.

  Not the response I’m looking for.

  Rhordyn’s been orchestrating my training for the past five years, and Baze led me to believe it was our little secret. The bastard.

  He doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry about it.

  “You wanted to be notified when the High Mistress crossed the border,” Baze states, chocolate eyes detangling from my threatening stare.

  Rhordyn releases an almost indiscernible sigh.

  He pulls back, tossing Baze the sword while looking me up and down. “You finish up with this,” he says, jerking his chin at me before retrieving his shredded top off the ground.

  “But I agreed to this under false pretenses!” I protest, eyes darting from one to the other. “I quit.”

  Rhordyn stops cold.

  A few long seconds pass, feeling like a small eternity. He finally unravels, shirt held in his white-knuckled fist as he looks my way. “Then your training will be replaced by daily trips to nearby villages. Escorted by me.”

  Not a single cell in my body escapes the attack of his words. Even my bones want to crumble from the blow.

  I find myself mouthing the word no ... unable to draw enough breath to say it.

  Rhordyn’s eyes harden. “Training it is, then. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  My heart drops.

  Tomorrow night ...

  He’s reneging on a blood-letting. Possibly two. Something he’s never done before.

  “But ... but don’t you need me?”

  “No,” he growls. “I need you to sort your shit out.”

  Asshole.

  “Ride her ass, Baze. Keep going until you can see the color in her eyes again.”

  “I hate you,” I manage to whisper, watching him stalk toward the wide-open doors.

  He grinds to a halt the moment the words slip off my tongue.

  A small, humorless smile curls his lips into something almost painful to witness—a wicked sharpness that reminds me I don
’t know this male despite all the years we’ve lived under the same roof.

  All the droplets of myself I’ve shared with him.

  “Oh, precious,” he says, surveying down, then back up the lines of my body still pinned to the wall by his phantom touch. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word.”

  And then he’s gone.

  I hold a lungful of floral air, attempting to soothe myself from the inside while I ease the greenhouse door shut. A bunch of blooms are caught in my fist, boasting vibrant petals of every color but the one that depicts my current mood.

  Blue.

  Not the crisp, clear blue the ocean goes when it’s not being stirred by wild weather, but the color of the bruised sky right before the last bit of light is pulled from it.

  I twist off the lid on an empty jar and ease my fingers open, exposing the stems of my fresh haul and all the raw, weepy blisters vandalizing my palm.

  That’s what hauling fifty-six rocks across The Plank will do—make you look diseased.

  The old tree that fell across the stagnant pond at the bottom of the estate twelve years ago used to be harmless enough ... until Baze started using it for training and corporal punishment. There are piles of rocks at each end, all bigger than my head, and if I lose my footing while ferrying them to the other side? Well, then comes a plunge in the selkie-infested pond.

  I should have just faked a fall the moment blisters started forming and risked a mad dash to the edge, but I was too busy nursing the chip on my shoulder.

  That chip has only grown since I climbed Stony Stem and realized my entire stash was cleared out. Now I have to re-collect all thirty-four ingredients to make a fresh batch of Exothryl—most of which are currently out of season.

  I’m pissed.

  Tomorrow, when I wake feeling like my head’s been crushed between two boulders, I’m going to be even more pissed. Something I’m certain Rhordyn considered before he deserted the scene of his crime, took off for a couple of days, and left me to salvage the scraps of my composure.

  I huff out a sigh, pushing the flowers into the jar more forcibly than necessary, causing a few stems to snap.

  A gardener walks by dragging a clipping sack, tipping his hat as I bag my hoard. I grunt a greeting in return, then stop and yell, “Wait!”

  I swear I hear him groan.

  He undoes the drawstring on his sack as I approach, baring the contents, stepping back and brushing off his jacket while I drop to my knees and sort through his stash of boxwood clippings.

  “Gail, is it?”

  The young man tips his hat again. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I come across some loose holly berries rolling around the bottom and click my tongue. Folding them amongst a piece of cheesecloth, I push to my feet and tuck the parcel in my bag. “You haven’t snipped the heads off any bluebells have you?”

  I don’t intend for the question to come out so accusatory, but I can tell I’ve toed that line by the way he pales. “N-n-no, ma’am. I wouldn’t dare! I’m just an apprentice hedge trimmer.”

  “Well, what about the other gardeners who are always buzzing around”—I wave a hand at the perfectly curated garden—”snipping things?”

  If I had it my way, the entire place would be overgrown. Wild and unruly and sprinkled with flowers.

  “I, ahh, I can’t speak for the others, but I think it’s fair to assume everyone knows better,” he says, pulling the drawstring tight.

  He’s probably referring to these random bag checks I perform weekly to ensure nothing valuable has been beheaded. He’d do the same if he’d raised most of the garden from seeds.

  He hitches the sack over his shoulder and slides back a step, tipping his hat for a third time. “If we’re all done here, I have lots of work to do in preparation for the ball ...”

  I sigh.

  That damn ball. It’s haunting me. And my plants.

  “Just ... don’t over prune.”

  “Wouldn’t dare.” He scurries off while I massage my temples.

  Scanning the grounds, I drag my feet toward the eastern castle wall that’s lined with nesting shrubs, hoping to find some bluebells that escaped the frost. The bulbs in Sprouts only yielded a single blooming bounty. The small amount of paint I derived from it has since been used, the stems dried and powdered and added to my confiscated stash of Exothryl.

  Yes, it’s one of the many ingredients I now need to recollect. Just salt to the wound. But more importantly, without blue paint I can’t finish the stone I chipped from the wall in Whispers. The thought alone is enough to make my head hurt.

  My foot hooks on a rogue rock poking out of the ground, and I fly forward, landing face first in the grass and uncomfortably close to a pile of horse manure.

  Groaning, I move to push myself upright when my eye catches on something tucked behind the shrubbery, glinting in a ray of sunlight.

  I crawl forward and part the branches to find a small, circular window close to the ground, the glass so filthy it’s impossible to see through. I spit on my sleeve, polish the surface, then press my nose against the pane and peer in.

  Huh.

  The interior, dimly lit by shafts of afternoon light, is packed full of large pieces of furniture covered in ghostly sheets.

  I’ve never seen this space before, and that’s rare. I’ve explored most rooms in Castle Noir aside from Rhordyn’s den, that locked door at the base of Stony Stem, and whatever’s in The Keep. The entryway to this room must be very well disguised, and that makes it even more intriguing.

  My never-ending well of curiosity is frothing.

  I reach back and pry the stone I just tripped on from the soil, biting my tongue as I prepare to toss it through the window pane—

  “Laith.”

  I squeal, almost leaping off the ground.

  Spinning, I narrow my eyes on Baze and drop the stone like it’s made of fire, hand pressed to my bludgeoning heart. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re the last person I want to see right now!” My brows crunch together. “Did you see me trip?”

  “Yes,” he says, arms crossed, wearing a cocky half smile. “And I was rooting for the pile of shit.”

  Of course he was.

  “And I’m here because it’s my job to keep an eye on you.” He drops to a crouch, trying to steal a peek through the window. “What are you doing?”

  I veer to the side, blocking his view while fiddling with the end of my braid. “You, like many others in this castle, take your job far too seriously. Maybe you should take the day off. Go find a maid to ... I don’t know ... do things with. I’m still mad at you for lying to me for the past five years, so I’d appreciate the peace.”

  His brow lifts and he ticks off his fingers. “One, I’ve apologized for using a blatant lie to motivate you into learning self-defense. And two, in my very extensive Orlaith experience, this sort of reaction usually means you’re up to no good.”

  Well, he’s not wrong.

  He gestures for me to move, pushing a stake right through my curious heart. I roll my eyes and shuffle aside, only because I can’t possibly sit here all day guarding my find.

  He parts the shrub and peers through the window. “Looks uninteresting.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I shove him out of the way and flatten my nose against the glass. “It looks the opposite of uninteresting!”

  “It’s just a dusty storage room,” he says, tone bland.

  “And in my very extensive Baze experience, you only speak like this when you’re trying to hide something.” I throw him a side-eye. “Is this what the locked door leads to? The one at the bottom of Stony Stem?”

  His lips thin and he rocks to a stand. “You’re much too observant for your own good.”

  “Is it?”

  He sighs, brushing off his tunic with a few brisk strokes. “It’s not where it leads to, no.”

  “So ... you know where the door leads.” I scrunch my nose and turn back to the ... well, who the hell knows what. �
�Interesting.”

  A stretch of silence ensues that drags just a little too long, and I turn, seeing him halfway across the field. “Where are you going?”

  I leap to my feet and dash after him.

  “Away!” he yells over his shoulder. “Those questions have spikes, Orlaith. Spikes that will make you bleed.”

  “I bleed every damn day,” I say on a loose breath, jogging at his side to keep up with his long, agile strides. “And I can handle the answers. I’ll be twenty-one in four weeks.”

  “Exactly!” he snarls, spinning so fast I slam into his chest and stumble back, barely managing to catch myself. “You’re still a child. A sheltered child who never leaves the grounds.”

  My blood chills.

  The words create wounds far deeper than the ones on my hands, and from the softening of his earthen eyes, I’d guess he knows it, too.

  He sighs, glancing up. “Come on, it’s getting late. The krah will start shrieking soon. And shitting everywhere. You know how much I hate those things.”

  Frowning, I look toward the darkening sky.

  It’s said that if a krah shits on you, your days are numbered—your death-date staked in the soil.

  Baze runs for cover whenever he hears them flocking across the sky. I’m more concerned that I’m soon to close my lids on my first full day without pricking my skin. Dripping into a goblet.

  Giving myself to him.

  To me, that’s far more damning than a smattering of poo.

  I thought Rhordyn needed me ...

  Now, I’m not so sure.

  Fog curls around my ankles, collecting at the base of ancient trees, the fringing forest a clash of jeweled tones and deep pockets of shade. The clearing is large enough to offer a peek of plum-colored clouds slashed across the sky.

  Krah glide through the bruised murk, squawking their wake-up call as I plunge my dagger deep into the boar’s stomach. The spill of thick blood coats my hands and steams the icy air, and I drag the blade down, carving a grisly seam, stabbing the weapon into the felled log I’m using as a table.

  The atmosphere is smoky from the blazing campfire centered within a noose of charred rocks, bridled with a makeshift spit I built using a few thick branches.

  A gentle breeze whistles through the trees, bringing forth more hints of that musky, feral odor that makes my hackles rise.