by Jen McIntosh
Keriath thrashed against Drosta’s grip, trying to get loose. It was an instinct she had little control over, an instinct that ruled all the Graced – to protect, to defend, to destroy. She roared as she fought, desperation blinding her. But those chains held tight, draining her strength from her. She could feel their tainted magic pressing down on her Graced power, containing it, binding it. Drosta shoved her from the saddle in disgust, her chains slipping loose from the pommel, and cuffed her across the face with a swipe of his arm. She was sent sprawling, but she surged up, screaming to the family in warning while she reached for the girl in Dell’s grip. Dell offered her a look of withering pity before he planted his boot in her chest and kicked her back into the dirt.
‘Stay down,’ he advised her. It was counsel she had always ignored, even as a child when she had trained with the legendary Resari. And if she had refused to surrender then, outmatched by power strong enough to challenge the Shade King himself, there was not a chance she would now. She staggered to her feet, spitting blood, rushing the Darkling again. This time Drosta intervened, his hand snaking out and seizing a fistful of her hair. She screamed as he wrenched her head back, thrashing against his grip. He shook her.
‘If you don’t settle down, I will carve that girl up right here in front of you. She will die screaming in agony, and every tortuous moment will be your fault,’ he hissed. Dell squeezed the girl’s throat to reinforce the point, smirking at the squeal that escaped her terrified lips. Keriath stilled, her fury thrumming in her veins as she quivered from the effort of restraining it. Drosta snarled with satisfaction and released her. ‘That’s better. Now, be a good girl and watch quietly.’ Then he snapped his fingers and sent his Hunt haring across the glen.
It was a bloodbath. Faolin and Dorrien had thinned Drosta’s Hunt, but there were still enough left to make short work of the family. The farmer fought, for all the good it did him. The boy and the girl tried to hide, even as their older brother was torn apart. But there was nowhere the Darklings couldn’t find them. The mother tried to run, then she tried to shield her child with her body. Her wails cut the deepest into Keriath’s tortured soul – worse than even the shrieking baby in her arms – keening as she was for the defenceless life dying in her womb. The Darklings spared the young woman, at least for a while. Her screams echoed through the hills while the monsters toyed with her.
Keriath could only watch, helpless to intervene. Her breath came in seething pants, her teeth bared as bloodlust boiled in her veins. But as the hills fell silent, she quietened. A deep, unyielding cold had seeped into her bones, freezing her fury into an icy rage. Her mother had once spoken in fear about the wrath of a patient man. Words of warning to her daughter, to always stay on her guard should the patience of the Shade King ever wear thin. Keriath might refute his claims, but she had realised long ago that she could learn more from her enemies than her friends. And the Shade King’s patience was legendary, as were the consequences of his careful plotting. How many years had he planned the atrocities leading to the Fall? How many years had he waited and suffered for those schemes to bear fruit? Certainty settled in her gut. Keriath could be patient too. One day she would see the world rid of the Darkling stain. One day she would bathe in Drosta’s blood for what had happened here, and she would take a damn long time doing it. One day …
‘If you want any, you’d better get a move on.’ Dell’s voice shook her from her vengeful imaginings, and she glanced round. He was speaking to his Hunter, his expression impassive as he looked back to the farmhouse. Keriath frowned. Dell’s expression was too blank, too carefully void of any emotion. She might not be able to sense his thoughts, but it wasn’t hard to deduce the emotions roiling beneath the surface. The slaughter didn’t sit well with him. She looked back at Drosta, but he was oblivious to his second’s discomfort. He was too busy watching her, an unsettling smile on his lips.
His bloody gaze flickered up to his second. ‘I’m fine. You take that one. I need you fit in case of any trouble between here and Illyol.’ Dell nodded, but Keriath could see the hesitation – the reluctance – in his eyes. Drosta didn’t seem to notice, turning his attention back to her. ‘Once they’re finished, we should ride on. I don’t want to risk meeting another Hunt drawn in by the blood.’
Dell nodded in agreement. ‘Cloud’s thick enough to keep riding for another hour,’ he grunted. ‘Should be far enough.’
Drosta looked back at the farmhouse, to his Hunt returning. ‘Maybe I should have Claimed two or three of them,’ he mused. ‘Our numbers need replenished if we’re to stand any chance of holding her between here and Illyol.’
‘You’d have lost at least two if they hadn’t fed,’ Dell pointed out, ‘and at least the same again would be weakened near to useless. You’re better off strengthening what you’ve got and replacing later.’ Drosta made a sceptical noise in the back of his throat, contemplating his prisoner once more. Dell huffed another frustrated sigh and gestured at the girl in his lap. During the slaughter, she’d fainted and now lay like a limp doll across his saddle. ‘If you’re that bothered, turn this one. I’ll last. It’s only another couple of days.’
‘No,’ said Drosta, turning on his second. There was something wild, something warped and twisted in his bloody gaze that made Keriath cringe inside. ‘No. I won’t risk it.’ He glanced back to the approaching Hunt. ‘Be quick about it, or they’ll demand that you share.’
‘I don’t mind—’ Dell began.
But Drosta cut him off. ‘I do. Now stop arguing and feed.’ His voice was laced with command. Keriath could feel the air vibrating with the force of his order, with the power of the Claiming. Dell crumpled beneath it. She hissed, powerless to stop him as he bowed his head to the girl’s throat and drained her of her meagre life. When he was done, he dumped her corpse on the ground with careful indifference. But Keriath saw the glimmer of regret in his blood-soaked eyes. A feral smile touched her lips. A chink. That’s what she’d found. A chink in Drosta’s armour.
‘We keep riding, make camp in an hour,’ Drosta called to his Hunt. ‘Then you can rest. I want everyone at full strength for the last stretch – I will not have my prize stolen by another Hunt.’ His voice was cold and stern. The command of a general, expecting his orders to be followed without question. Sure enough, one by one, they all inclined their heads in acquiescence. Keriath didn’t fight as he dragged her back into the saddle. Patience, she told herself. Patience would reward her sooner than reckless fury.
So they thundered back down into the forest, desperate to escape the dawn. A grim smile twisted her lips, and she took a deep, steadying breath. She just had to bide her time.
They descended into the shadows just before the cloud cleared, and Keriath felt Drosta breathe a small sigh of relief behind her. But it was short-lived, and he called a halt not long after. He barked sharp commands as they made camp, ordering a tent set in the centre.
She was afforded some food and water – not enough to fill her belly or soothe her parched throat, but she knew better than to argue, especially when she noted the dangerous glint in Drosta’s blood-red eyes. He was hiding it well from his Hunt, but Keriath could see that he was famished.
Sure enough, he gripped her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, shoving her into the tent. Then, with a snapped order not to disturb him under any circumstances, he followed her inside.
It was comfortable, for makeshift accommodation. The forest floor hidden beneath a blanket of animal pelts, the thickest and softest of them piled beside his bedroll. Sleeping rough had never bothered Keriath. A bed of pine needles was about as good as she ever hoped for, so the soft furs were a comparative luxury.
Then she caught that same dark glint in his eye and realised what had prompted this. She recoiled, swearing viciously, and spat in his face. He blinked once and wiped it away before he lashed out, cracking the back of his hand across her face.
Keriath staggered and tripped on her chains, crashing to the ground with h
er cheek smarting and jaw aching from the force of his blow. He stood over her, massaging his hand as he considered her, his eyes glowing. She touched her hand to her lip and wasn’t surprised when it came away bloody. She forced herself to take a deep breath and stay calm. Then she raised her eyes and met his gaze, unleashing her entire self on him. Not for long though. She couldn’t risk bewitching him completely, not without the Enchanting to hold him. But just enough to lower his defences, make him forget the threat she posed, bound or not. And when his eyes glazed and his jaw opened in awe, triumph set her heart racing.
It took more effort than she anticipated to repress a grim smile, but she managed, and lowered her eyes in submission. She knew what was coming next, but she had to endure it or risk raising his suspicion. She wasn’t strong enough to make a break for it, would have to rely on stealth. For now, at least.
There was a feral growl as he caught the aroma of blood, and she knew he was in control of himself once more. Sure enough, those cruel hands gripped her once more and slammed her into the ground, pinning her there with the full weight of his body. She closed her eyes and fought against the wave of nausea that roiled in her stomach. His lips brushed her throat.
‘What are you?’ he hissed against her neck.
‘You know what I am,’ she gasped, struggling against him.
‘You’re more than just a Unicorn. What other blood flows in your veins?’ he murmured as he bit into the skin. She couldn’t help it – she whimpered at the piercing pain. But when she refused to answer, he growled and shook her. Hard. His teeth tore at her throat, and she screamed in agony.
‘Elf!’ she cried. ‘By the Gods, I’m half Elf!’
Drosta laughed and drank from the bleeding wound. A small sob escaped her lips – from fear or from pain. She could hardly tell the difference anymore.
It was long after sunset when Keriath finally moved. Drosta lay sprawled in his bedroll, sated at last. Her skin crawled from the ghost of his touch, and shame pricked behind her eyes. Her birthright was to slaughter Darklings, not to lie still while they fed on her power. But she clamped down on the disgust that threatened to overwhelm her, relegating it to the deepest, darkest depths of herself.
‘We do what we have to with what we have,’ her mother said once. The Lady Kylar had endured worse – some would say her daughter was living proof of that, though Keriath refused to believe it. Rumours and lies, meant to turn her against her family. Her mother had never given so much as an inch to the horrors in her past. Keriath would honour her by doing the same.
So she straightened her clothes as best she could and slipped her hand into the pocket of Drosta’s discarded coat. A satisfied smile twisted her lips as her fingers closed around the cold metal of the key. Drosta did not so much as twitch as she eased it free and slid it into the locks of her manacles. Even with the power of her blood now running through him, he was still spent. So predictable, Darklings and their insatiable appetites. Offer them whatever it was they desired, and they would gorge themselves senseless.
He stirred when the manacles clicked open, his eyelids fluttering before he drifted back into oblivion. She eyed the knife on his belt, tempted by bloody vengeance. A risk, and difficult to keep silent – not to mention, a waste to make it quick. He deserved to suffer. But this was neither the time nor the place to indulge herself. Instead, she crept to the back of the tent and pulled out the peg securing it, lifting the canvas up enough that she might roll underneath it. With a final hungry look at her prey and a soft hiss of frustration, she slipped from the tent and into the night beyond.
Shrouded in the shadows, she looked about her. The entrance to Drosta’s tent faced the fire in the centre of their camp, around which, most of the Darklings were now sprawled. Drunk on human life, she noted with a silent snarl. She’d seen it before. Were it not for the ruan, Keriath could have swept through their pitiful little camp like a natural disaster, leaving only death and ruin in her wake. But that power was beyond her, her strength drained by hunger and exhaustion. She pushed her frustration aside, turned and crept into the night.
It was so easy to steal away from their camp. To slip between bored sentries and half-hearted patrols too scared of their Hunter to disobey him but too tired to do the job properly. She took those cursed chains with her and dumped them in the first stream she crossed. She retraced their steps north-west, making for the farmhouse. It was a risk. Other Hunts might be drawn in by the lure of blood. But she needed supplies – food, clothing … weapons if she could get them. It grated on her to consider pilfering from the dead, but even she could concede that her need was greater than theirs. Besides, Drosta would be unlikely to consider tracking her back there, and any mortals within a ten-mile radius would stay well away.
So the light of a torch flickering in the night as she approached was somewhat unexpected. Hidden in the shadows, she crept closer, wishing for the bow and quiver full of arrows she’d abandoned on her flight from Thornhold, and spared a moment to curse whoever had sold her out to the Darklings. But she dared not dwell any longer. Not when the truth of that betrayal might just break her.
A fire flared into life, shattering the darkness with its roar and crackle. The farm and fields were bathed in the warm glow and smoke filled the air. Keriath frowned, peering through the sudden brightness to what she thought was a shadowy figure beyond. Then the shape vanished, and she blinked in confusion. Perhaps she’d just imagined it. But the fire hadn’t started itself. So she inched forward.
And froze at the cold bite of steel at her throat.
‘If you come quietly, we can go back to the camp and say no more about it,’ a male voice murmured in the darkness. ‘You can fight if you must, but either way, you’re going back. If you make me work for it, I’ll tell Drosta you escaped and watch with a smile when he beats you bloody.’
Dell. Keriath cursed inwardly. What was he doing here? Not that it mattered. He was one Darkling, alone and mortal. She rose from her crouch, allowing him to keep his blade at her throat. He tracked her movements but didn’t lower his guard. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he warned. ‘I am not in the mood.’ Something in his voice made her pause.
‘What are you in the mood for?’ she asked with a suggestive wink.
He glowered. ‘Not that. I’m assuming that’s how you got loose?’
‘I promise he’ll say it was worth it.’ She smirked, trying to ignore how her skin crawled at the thought of him feeding, leeching the power from her soul.
He gave her a knowing look. ‘I don’t think you’d say the same.’
‘It’ll be worth it once the ruan wears off, and I can turn his head inside out,’ she said. ‘Your Hunter thinks he understands pain and suffering, but he doesn’t have my gifts.’ The Enchanting gave her so much more than just control. With it she could unravel Drosta’s mind, delve deep into his nightmares and drown him in them. It was a warming thought.
Dell’s face remained impassive. ‘I doubt you’ll find his head a pleasant place to linger.’
‘And what about your head?’ she asked, trying to quell the queasy sensation rising in her stomach. ‘What will I find in there? Maybe an answer to why you’re out here all alone, cleaning up your Hunter’s mess?’
His gaze darkened at that. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Does Drosta know you’re here?’ When he didn’t answer, her smile broadened. ‘Well then, I think it’s more likely you who’s for the beating.’
‘You should worry less about my hide and more about your own,’ he reminded her, the blade at her throat twitching in warning. ‘Now are you going to come quietly or are you determined to make my life difficult?’
‘What do you think?’
Dell heaved a sigh of frustration and swung. She dodged, her Graced speed allowing her to avoid the blade whistling through the air. But as she swirled away, she had a sudden sinking feeling that she was going to lose this fight. Exhaustion and hunger wore deep into her soul. Even though her Gra
ced might was now loose from those accursed chains, she wondered if it would be enough to save her. The clouds overhead shifted, and a ghostly shaft of moonlight pierced the shadows. A silvery glint of an abandoned knife on the ground had her moving again.
Keriath sprinted for the knife, cursing what the moonlight would reveal. The glamour that dampened the sheer force of her appearance – her power – was ripped away as the light touched her. As a child she’d witnessed her mother unleashed, knew what it looked like. What it revealed. Skin glowing with all the luminosity of the moon itself, the light of a million stars glittering in her captivating eyes. She could feel her raven hair curling and snapping as her aura danced over her skin, crackling like purple fire. She hissed in frustration to have unveiled so much. But she had the knife.
Dell staggered in awe but recovered. He came at her hard, lashing out with fist and blade. She tried to catch his eye, tried to stun him into inertia with her gaze, but he seemed wise to that trick and focussed on her body. Bone crunched beneath her boot as she landed a powerful kick on his leg. But her victory was short-lived; he returned with a heavy punch to her face. She stumbled and only just avoided the singing edge of his blade as it cut through the air towards her throat.
With a yell, she arched back as the blade sliced through the air just above her neck, then straightened, throwing the knife with all her might. The big swordsman roared in pain as it pierced his shoulder, and he staggered back. She didn’t hesitate. Darting past, she dug deep for the strength that would allow her to escape. But where there should have been a torrent, there was only a trickle. She cursed and ran. If she could just put some distance between them …
