Huntress: A Paranormal Romance

by Alexandra Christian

“When King Christophe drove me out of Thane, I took shelter in Isling. As a midwife and healer, they called me to your mother’s bedside when she lay dying, having just bore you.”

  “You took me in when my father abandoned me.”

  Esa nodded. “I raised you both.”

  “I don’t remember…”

  “He was as a dream for you, child. You’ve seen Malik’s true face, haven’t you?”

  Suddenly everything fell into place. The familiarity. The strange dreams. Her whole life, every fragment started to piece itself together and began to make Thalia’s head spin. She held her head remembering all the games, the teasing, the fevered dreams. The dark and beautiful prince that had been her only safe haven was also the root of all her fears. He was the scourge of these lands and the stuff of nightmares. The great Wyrm of Gwynfir was Thalia’s greatest love. Suddenly she felt very faint.

  “I know this is difficult, child,” Esa said, reaching for her.

  Thalia shook her head. “You have no idea,” she snapped, jerking away. “You’ve been lying to me my whole life!”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  “At least I wouldn’t have spent my whole life wishing for something I could never have! Now I’m trapped here in this… cold, hollow delusion with the two of you!” Before Esa could protest, Thalia was gone. She needed to be as far away from the old woman as she could get. Suddenly her entire life, the old life that she had longed to go back to even, was a ridiculous illusion.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was customary in the kingdom of Osghast that when a king died, their body lay in state for a month to allow people from all over the continent to travel to the capital at Thane and pay their last respects to the dead. The castle and the entirety of the town was decked in black. Every building was swathed in black bunting and wreaths of Elderflower. Citizens were required to wear black and were not allowed to speak while on the street in a show of respect for the dead. At sundown on the thirtieth day, the body of the king was burned in the courtyard of the castle. The royal family, every member of court, and servants of the household stood watch all night until nothing was left but the embers. At sunrise, the new king was crowned, and the period of mourning was over. But King Christophe’s death was anything but customary.

  Tristan was an accomplished schemer. For a month, he’d waited to see if the little Tarkinian whore would make good on her promise to slay the dragon, but no word had been sent, and she did not return. He had heard whispers of the castle at Ellythin being remade. His father’s confession had begun to trouble Tristan more and more. His father had warned him that the Dragon Lord had a claim to the throne. Tristan clenched his fists so tightly he could nearly feel the blood bubbling through the skin. He had not come this far to have his birthright stolen from him by a… creature! His plans hinged on the dragon’s destruction. But with each passing day, it became clearer that the Huntress had not fulfilled her part of the deal. There were even panicked rumors that the girl had been seen in the forest surrounding Isling. What if she had escaped? Would the dragon come back?

  Damn his father! His death had nearly spoiled everything. Tristan hadn’t planned to kill him. But the rage had taken him over, and he just couldn’t stop. He’d had to think of something, and fast. When it was done, Tristan had tucked his father into bed as if nothing was wrong, cleaned the spilled blood from the stones at the hearth, and gone to bed as if all was well. He was awakened early the next morning by the shouts of Balan and some of the chambermaids. They had found Christophe cold in his bed. The exquisite dagger lay on the floor at the bedside as if discarded by an assassin. It was a very distinct weapon with its superior steel blade and the exquisitely carved raven at the hilt. A weapon fit for a king of Osghast, his father had once told him. There was only one other dagger in the whole of the world like this one. The one Tristan himself had given to the little slayer.

  It would be so easy to frame Thalia for the king’s murder. So easy for the people to believe that an outsider and a woman could kill their sovereign. If the rumors were to be believed, then Thalia was alive and well. Perhaps the dragon had grown fond of her. Once she was arrested and imprisoned, his brother would come to save her. And this time, he would not fail.

  “Sire. It is time.” Tristan turned to see Balan and Grafton standing at his door. “The sun is peeking over the horizon.” He nodded and allowed Balan to straighten his flowing robes. They were purple: the regal color of the royal house of Laurenz. His father had worn these robes many years ago and his father before him. If one looked closely, they could see the evidence of age and disuse though the seamstresses had been working on the repairs for the entire month of mourning. As Balan smoothed the train behind him, Tristan was aware of how heavy they were. Black brocade inlaid with gold thread decorated the lapels. A trim of ivory and gold fur decorated the hem, and tiny jewels had been worked into the embroidery. They were indeed kingly robes, but they only served to highlight the weight that now rested on his shoulders.

  “Your Majesty,” Grafton sputtered with a clumsy bow. “Long may you reign.”

  Tristan only replied with a terse grin. He did not like Grafton. Not one bit. It was true that the gypsy governor had helped him thus far, but Tristan knew if given half a chance, Grafton would turn. He was an opportunist. Tristan’s first act as king would be to get the border towns under control. These governors had grown far too comfortable and autonomous. And then there were the outlying kingdoms. Whispers of a coming rebellion had been heard throughout the continent, and there was no way Tristan was going to let this pass by unnoticed. Yes, a show of the strength of Osghast would be just the thing to get them all in line.

  The Great Hall smelled of fire. The ashes of the king were still smoldering on the pyre. Tristan wrinkled his nose in distaste thinking what an antiquated old ritual. The castle would smell of putrid smoke for weeks. As he marched slowly up the aisle, a chorus of trumpets heralded his coming. The room was packed with nobles and heads of state. Citizens and peasants stood in the back and spilled out into the courtyard. The stench of them blended with the smoke and rich perfume of the privileged, creating a thick mist of sickly sweet death. Tristan brought his handkerchief to his nose as he passed by them.

  Nyxyn and the other members of the royal council lined the steps leading up to the throne. The ancient crown sat precariously on a cushion perched in the hands of Grafton. Secretly Tristan hoped he would drop the gaudy old thing so that he would have a reason to run him through in front of this crowd of spectators.

  When he reached the throne, Tristan turned to face the citizens of Osghast. Grafton began to ramble on, going through some mindless speech about the transfer of power and remembering the loss of one so dear as King Christophe. Tristan’s mouth cut a thin, pursed line as he stood there trying to look as if he were listening to any of this drivel. Now that he was king, Tristan planned to make it a point to get rid of all these politicians and their rhetoric. Their hollow words sickened him, and he could taste the bile in the back of his throat.

  “Kneel before your people, Tristan, son of Christophe and heir to the House of Laurenz!” As he did so, Tristan noticed the mosaic that decorated the marble floor at his feet. A dragon, the ancient symbol of the Laurenz clan, stared up at him with ruby-inlaid eyes. They stared at him accusingly. The eyes of the dragon knew what he had done, and they promised vengeance. “But not this day,” Tristan whispered.

  “Sire?” Grafton hissed at his side.

  Tristan gave a subtle shake of his head and bowed, allowing Grafton to place the heavy crown upon his head. “Now rise! Tristan, King of Osghast, Lord Regent of Thane!” As Tristan rose, the crowd gathered knelt before him, bowing their heads in reverence. Tristan felt intoxicated. A new power rushed through his veins, rising in his chest as he pasted a sincere smile on his face, taking in their accolades.

  “My people!” he said. “I am humbled by your love and concern for the royal family at this time of mourning. Our city h
as faced much tragedy in recent memory: the death of Queen Katrin, the Outlander raids on our border towns, the fiery destruction of our homes, and now the death of our king. Some of it was brought about by the declining health of my father, some by treacherous parasites that seem to infect from every dark corner of the continent. But we have persevered. As we have for the last thousand years, Osghast has been the one constant. The rock on which the other realms have leaned for strength and protection. It is because of your faith and constancy that we have weathered these storms and will continue to weather them!” There was another deafening crescendo that echoed off the walls of the Great Hall. “My friends, in this time of tragedy, it brings me great pain to confide the reason we’re all here today. The safety of our kingdom has been violated once more, but I promise you… it will be the last time. The great Wyrm of Gwynfir has plagued our shores for years now, burning towns all around our perimeter. Just one month ago, the beast grew bolder and entered our city gates. The damage to our capital was great, and many lives were lost, but something more sinister was afoot, my friends. The chosen bride of Sheakhol, the one we thought would be our savior, was in league with the dragon all along!” There was a gasp and a din of muttering and whispers throughout the room. “It was she who stole into my father’s room and took his life! But fear not. Your king will avenge his father! I will track the dragon and his treasonous bride into the mountains to restore order and peace to these lands!” The crowd was silent, disbelieving that their king had been murdered in cold blood right under their noses. “Go now,” Tristan said. “Do not think on our misfortunes. A fortnight of feasting and joy awaits!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the end there was fire. Burning and smoldering, ashes of women and children blowing in the very air she breathed. Bella could smell it. There was death and decay around every corner, under every stone. The world as they knew it was drawing to an end. The path was narrow, the stones lit by the sliver of moonshine overhead, but she followed it to its terminus at the sacred lake. The lake that was barely more than a pond now. The scorched ground lapped at the only source of relief until the earth cracked open, and the forest, once teeming with life, was now a tangle of gnarled trees and poisonous air. She looked down and saw her bare feet padding toward her destination. They bled, the skin torn and raw from walking.

  Now she was standing in the acidic water of the once-thriving lake. It stank of sulfur and the rotting flesh of the animals left behind. A ripple in the water caught her eye, and she watched as her reflection twisted and roiled, dissolving into a vision of a world torn asunder by war. A young king stood over his father, a dagger clutched in his fist. Blood ran in streams through the streets of Thane, soaking into the cobblestones. Wild men the height of small trees with the tusks of animals growled and roared. Gazing into the mirror of the dying lake, Bella could hear them, could smell the musk of them. They overran the streets, trampling weary knights, women, and children. The sky glowed with a sickening orange light. The whole world was on fire, and the cries for mercy were deafening. But there was no mercy to be had. Osghast would fall, and the world of men would fall into a hellish dream from which no living soul would awaken.

  Thalia wandered through the ruined garden in the dusky twilight. Honeysuckle grew wild, nearly choking the ivy that grew over the crumbling stones. She could smell it on the wind, and she smiled. She could remember the taste of the sweet nectar on her tongue from when she was a child. Esa had once told her a silly story about how the fairies used the honeysuckle blossom for a teacup. Yet another fairy tale the old woman had spun for her enjoyment.

  She’d spent most of the last month here, sitting among the overgrown vines and wildflowers, trying to make sense of her situation. Or lazing in the bough of the gnarled tree reading a book. The chambermaid had been scarce, and Thalia was grateful for that. She didn’t want to talk to her about fairies or magic or how the woman she’d loved as a mother had just been a sick masquerade.

  Malik had not returned to the castle since their night flight. Strangely, she sort of missed him. Of course, now that she knew who he was, she felt awkward even thinking of being near him. Over the years, she’d confessed many dark secrets from the dusty corners of her heart to him. Could her dark prince really be there somewhere underneath those scales in the midst of the fire?

  Then there was the matter of an entire village razed to the ground at his hand. Thalia stared down at the mark that wrapped around her wrist. It was a constant reminder of her purpose. Was she not still the Huntress? She had vowed to protect people from dragons, not fall in love with them.

  “Oh Thalia! Thank heavens you’re here!” Bella looked almost comical as she ran down the ruined path, stumbling over tree roots. “I’ve been looking all over.”

  “I’ve been here the whole time,” Thalia replied with a yawn. “That’s what I do now. Lie around here as a prisoner.”

  “As much as I’d like to engage in another pity party with you, Thalia, this is important!”

  There was the Esa she remembered. “What is it? Just spit it out!” Bella grabbed her arm and began jerking her toward the castle. Thalia stumbled and dropped her book. She tried to pull away to get it, but Bella kept right on dragging her inside. “What? Bella! My book—”

  “Just leave it! It isn’t important.”

  Finally, Thalia wrenched her arm from Bella’s grasp. “Would you kindly tell me what in the world is going on instead of tugging my arm out of the socket?”

  “Oh, it’s terrible,” Bella said, doubling over as she caught her breath. Evidently she’d been running up and down the stairs searching her out. “A vision… a terrible vision…the king…”

  “What of him?”

  “He’s dead!”

  While hearing of someone’s death was never a cause for celebration, Thalia couldn’t see why this was so earth-shattering. “What of it? King Christophe was old and, from what I hear, fairly ill. His death can’t possibly be a surprise to you.”

  “Surely you can’t have been idle so long that you’ve lost your senses!” Bella snapped. “Don’t you know what this means?”

  “That Tristan got what he wanted. Good on him.”

  “No, stupid child! That Tristan has killed his father! He’ll come after Malik! And you! He cannot be allowed to rule Osghast! He will bring death! Do you hear me?” Once more Bella began rushing Thalia toward the stairs.

  “Just calm down, Bella,” Thalia began, pausing at the stairs and refusing to move farther. “Perhaps your vision was just a… I don’t know, a bit of underdone food. Or too much wine?”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Bella exclaimed. “Dreams are rarely just dreams. You should know that better than anyone! Mab has sent me this vision to taunt me. Tristan has killed his father to gain control over Osghast. He thinks he knows what is best, but it’s folly! I see darkness and death! War and disease!”

  “This is all terribly dramatic,” Thalia sighed, dragging herself slowly up the stairs. She really wasn’t in the mood for the fiery passions of fairies. All she wanted was a hot bath and her bed. “But so what? Let Tristan lie in a pool of his own blood and piss. What difference does it make? He’s a fool that deserves everything that happens to him.”

  “The difference is that Mab tried to tell me this would happen. If I didn’t destroy Malik that he would burn this world. And she likes nothing more than to be right.”

  When they arrived at the top of the stairs, Bella was very forceful as she pushed Thalia into her bedchamber. She stumbled over the foot of the vanity stool and sat down hard on it. Before she could complain, Bella had rushed to the wardrobe and began pulling piles of fabric and lace and tossing them over the end of the bed. Thalia watched for a while with her arms folded until finally curiosity got the better of her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bella said. “Possibly making a huge mistake, but we’ll see.”

  “I don’t follow…”

  “Look, fairies are magical cre
atures, and magic has rules. One of those rules is that magic is balance. Anything that can be done can also be undone. You and I are going to attempt to undo Mab’s curse.”

  She couldn’t help it. The laughter bubbled out before Thalia could stop it. “Me? There isn’t a magical bone in my body! What good could I possibly be?”

  “You’ve got me. And right now, you’re the only hope we have.”

  “Me? I’m just… I’m just a slayer. There’s nothing special about me at all.”

  “Nothing except your love for him.”

  Thalia’s heart pounded uncomfortably against her chest, and suddenly there was too much air. “I… I don’t love him. How could I? It goes against my very nature…”

  “So why haven’t you killed him? All you need do is destroy the dragon, and you could be queen of these lands. Tristan would give you anything you wanted, and you could live in comfort for the rest of your days.”

  Thalia stood and paced. Bella was right. Thalia could have killed Malik at any time. In fact, it seemed that he’d been waiting for her to. She stared into the fire and watched the flames lick at the fresh logs. Perhaps the answers to all the questions that were swirling around in her brain could be found in the flickering orange light. “I could never love Tristan. He’s…”

  “Dangerous. That is why breaking the curse is so important. Tristan will throw this world into chaos. Now that he has ascended the throne, he will wage war not just with Malik, but with the outlying kingdoms. Osghast will fall. I have foreseen it and fear it has already begun. As full of rage and hate as he might be, Malik is the only hope for his father’s kingdom. He must claim his birthright and ascend to the throne of Osghast.” She stopped piling clothes on the bed and turned to face the dragon slayer. “And I’ve watched you all your life, Thalia. You’ve loved Malik since the day you were born. And he you. Mark me! That true and pure love will be what breaks the curse.”