Lost & Found: A Silk & Steel Novella, #3.5

by Ariana Nash

  Something was very wrong with this dream.

  Moorland scents were all around him, but he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten up here. He tried to get his hands under him to push up but found his wrists were tightly bound in front of him.

  Conor.

  The blade.

  Venali’s home.

  Blood.

  Madness.

  His vision blurred. Blinking just made it worse. The fog was worse in his left eye. He could see well enough out of his right eye, and see Conor perched on a rock, the wind lashing his brunette hair about his face.

  He looked like Conor but didn’t.

  The joy Trey had fallen for had snuffed out of his eyes and his bright smile had been torn from his lips, leaving him a colder and harder version of Conor.

  Conor picked at the dirt under his nails with a short dragonblade. Plink-plink. Blood crusted its edge. Trey’s blood. Trey knew that blade, it was the same one he’d found plunged in his door last year inviting him to After Dark. The same blade likely used to rip open Kalie’s arms.

  Plink-plink.

  The world spun, Trey’s body loose and distant. He was hurt. Badly. Probably still bleeding. But he was alive. Had the other assassins been given second chances? Plink. Somehow, he doubted it.

  Alumn, he should have seen the madness in Conor sooner.

  Why hadn’t he? Had the signs been there? Had Trey not wanted to see them?

  He needed to think.

  He got both his bound hands under him and shoved upright, then wished he hadn’t. The world spun some more, trying to take his guts with it. He fell back against a hard boulder.

  “Why did you… invite me to AD…” Shit, his voice wasn’t working properly. The words scratched, like he’d tried to whisper. “…If you didn’t want me there?”

  Plink.

  Conor frowned at the blade, then stood and sauntered closer. He crouched in front of Trey, looking him over, his face utterly cold.

  “He wanted you there.”

  Conor loved Venali. The worse of this was, Trey knew the signs, he’d been in the middle of a broken love before, and he still hadn’t seen it when it was right in front of him.

  That first night when he’d found the invitation to AD and found Conor at the club, it had all been engineered by Conor. All of it. Even Trey getting him off in full view of Venali. Conor knew Venali had a crush on Trey. Everyone seemed to know it. “You singled me out to get Venali to see you.”

  Conor’s snarl twitched. “Before you… we fucked, but he moved on and I…”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “I want him back. You helped and then you left, and that was how it was supposed to be. Just me and Venali. Until you came back.”

  Fuck, the irony made Trey want to laugh or sob. Nye had been the same, so lost in unrequited love that it had eaten him up inside. Trey had watched him turn from proud assassin into something else, something terrible.

  Love didn’t have to hurt. Not real love. But it couldn’t be forced, either.

  Trey must have laughed, because Conor was suddenly on him. The blade’s tip tore into Trey’s forearm and ripped through his sleeve, tearing downward through flesh.

  Trey bucked, tried to tear free, but it happened too fast, and then Conor was backing off, the blade in his hand dripping blood across the ground.

  Blood bloomed across Trey’s sleeve, ruining Venali’s shirt.

  It soaked through in seconds and then dribbled from Trey’s fingers. Alumn, there was so much of it.

  “Fuck…” Trey lifted his bound wrists high, wincing at the throbbing agony. He needed to slow the flow, but he couldn’t hold them aloft for long and soon let them fall into his lap.

  More blood flowed. It ran in rivulets down his tied, trembling hands and soaked the ground around him.

  Kalie had died this same way, her veins torn open, but she’d fought. “You fucking coward…” He wheezed, breathing too hard, body beginning to fail. Panic’s claws were sinking in, telling him he was about to die, loosening his tongue and reason. “You butchered your Order kin. Why, Conor?”

  Conor shrugged. “It felt good, like nothing else in this world feels good anymore.” His grin came alive. “Kalie kept asking about you and Venali. She kept saying how happy Venali was. Then she said you were together, and I… made her stop talking. The others were random, just pretty little things with skin that peels open. Making them bleed, watching them die, it gave me a purpose again.”

  He pressed the blade’s tip to Trey’s cheek. “Fucking Venali came close—all the power he has, when I’m with him, it’s like there’s nothing else. I know you felt it too. But it doesn’t quite beat sinking a blade into flesh and watching blood trickle away. I started on animals—after the war—watching them die… but it wasn’t enough.” He flicked the blade, zipping open Trey’s cheek, then whirled away, striding a few paces before turning again. “It’s power, taking someone’s life. You know it. You did it too. We killed dragonkin together, watched them drown in pools of their own blood. We did that.” He threw his arms up, raising his blade to the sky. “Alumn, we’re Assassins of the Order. We’re kings! We should be worshipped! Instead, we’re forgotten, shoved in some basement, pushed aside, told to… I don’t know… put down fucking roots and pretend like we’re the same as sheep. You can’t tame a wolf, tell it to play nice, and then frown at it for killing the weak.”

  “They weren’t weak. They were fucking people! They were Order assassins. They’d earned their right to life… You took that away.”

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We all want it. Killing is who we are. It’s in our blood. Dragons are gone. We’re the predators now.”

  Trey’s teeth chattered. It was cold, wasn’t it? The sun was setting, the sky bleeding with him.

  Why was he so cold? He didn’t feel the wound so much now, or the throbbing in his head. It had all faded beneath the chill in his veins. Trey dropped his head back against the boulder. “Venali knows I’m back. He’ll come looking. Let me go now and we can still fix this.”

  Conor’s smile lashed across his lips. “Darling Trey. Venali got a note. You likely remember it? You certainly know how to write a goodbye letter, don’t you, Trey. I guess you’ve had plenty of practice. You should have seen his face fall when he thought you’d left him. Again.”

  Trey’s pulse raced, pumping more blood from the cut. “I don’t believe you. I told him about the note. He’ll know it’s old.”

  “But your bag was gone, your room empty, and when he asked at the desk, I’d already told them you’d left, so that’s exactly what they told Venali. The messenger has gone, they said. And it’s tragic really, but we’ll probably never hear from him again. Messengers die all the time.”

  “You son-of-a-dragon’s-bitch!” Trey got his legs under him and lunged, but the moorland tipped and his head spun and Conor slashed with his blade, zipping a line of hurt across Trey’s chest. Trey was down again, sprawled among the gorse, breathing too hard. Darkness throbbed in the corner of his vision. A knee plunged into his back, pinning him still.

  “When you left last time,” Conor hissed, “he almost killed himself, you selfish prick!”

  The punch landed low on Trey’s back, setting off a round of sparks that almost blinded.

  “I hate him when he gets like that… Gets stupid, drinking himself into nothing. Venali loves like he lives, hard and fast. He’d have died fast too. I found him out cold on the floor, nearly left him there. But he would have died for you, and you’re not fucking worth it.”

  Another punch. Trey’s gut heaved. He spat bile and hissed, clinging to the fragments of consciousness, trying to slot them back together. If he passed out, he’d die.

  “This is for the best. Your body will be found up here. Wolves will have gotten to you by then. He’ll mourn you, but I’ll be there for him. Only me. None of that bullshit with the three of us.”

  Venali wouldn’t know Conor had killed Kalie and the others. He�
��d never know how Trey’s life had ended. He couldn’t let the truth go unheard. People needed to know. Venali needed to know.

  “It… won’t work…” Trey rasped.

  Conor yanked him off the floor and manhandled him onto his back. “What?”

  “You can’t… make him… love you.”

  He snatched Trey’s good arm and pressed the blade in. The skin split open, blood pooling. “Say that again—to my face!”

  “You’re lost.”

  Conor met Trey’s swimming gaze and blinked. The blade stopped its downward cut. Briefly, he almost looked as though he heard the words, like they’d reached into the madness and shone a light onto some small part of goodness inside, and then the smile crawled back onto his lips and the darkness swamped back in.

  “Some can be saved… And some can’t.” Trey thrust his head forward, striking Conor’s nose, sending him reeling. He snatched for the blade loose in Conor’s hand and pulled it free, only for it to slip from his fingers and tumble to the ground.

  Conor plowed into him, tackling him back. Air oomphed out of Trey. Conor’s fingers clamped around Trey’s throat and squeezed.

  His weight pushed down.

  Trey bucked and shoved, but with his hands bound and his head already half starved of blood, the battle was lost.

  His lungs burned, his body twitching out its last desperate thrashes. He let his hands fall.

  Conor’s grip around his neck tightened. He leaned in, his sneer filling Trey’s fading vision.

  It would all end here. The truth would never be told. This was what being lost felt like. Like falling, with nobody there to catch you. But Alumn, he had someone. He had a wreck of a sentinel who laughed and loved and fucked up and did it full of passion. It couldn’t end here, not now that Trey had finally found a love worth fighting for.

  His bound hands rested on the ground. Among the blur of tears, he spotted a rock, its edges jagged. If he could just hold on, and fight, and reach for it…

  Alumn, lend me your light.

  His fingers found the edges of the rock. It rolled into his palm. For light, for love, for saving those who want to be saved. He swung the rock in both hands, smashing it across Conor’s cheek.

  Conor’s grip on Trey's throat vanished. He crumpled to the side, unmoving.

  Trey gasped and gulped, then spluttered too much air back up again. It wasn’t over. If he had any blood left in his veins, it wouldn’t be there long. Rolling Conor off him seemed impossible, but he managed to shove him off enough to pull himself free, and then he was up and staggering. Ashford wasn’t far… if he could just…

  He fell and choked on sobs. Just a bit farther… Just one more step. Venali needed to know. The assassins needed to know. He got up… somehow… and stumbled on. Cold. Everything was cold and numb now, his body not his own.

  “Who goes there?”

  Relief made his vision swim. His knees struck dirt.

  A hand grasped his arm. “Hold on…”

  “Conor,” he wheezed, voice gone, like the rest of him, lost somewhere close to death. But Alumn couldn’t have him for her garden, and his ribbon wasn’t being tied to the tree. Not today.

  Venali simmered in the corner like a flame about to burst and devour all its fuel. He spoke in hushed tones to another assassin, and then he was gone, or Trey had passed out again, because the room was dark. But he wasn’t alone. A blade flashed.

  He snapped open his eyes and jerked up. The bed, the room, it was unfamiliar. Pain flared across his chest, his neck, everywhere. He croaked out some kind of noise, sounding like someone else.

  “Easy.”

  Venali.

  A gloved hand touched Trey’s cheek, making him look into Venali’s cool green eyes. “Lay back.” The sentinel’s fragile smile jumped.

  “Conor…?” Trey rasped.

  “We know. Will you just lay back before you pass out?”

  Venali lay him back as Trey tried to keep his eyes open. He needed to know more, but sleep pulled him down again, mixing him into nightmares and dreams full of dead assassins and broken blades.

  When Trey woke again, Venali was slumped in the chair beside the bed, head propped on his hand, snoring softly. He’d changed out of his sentinel uniform and wore more casual clothes, still managing to make them look like the height of elegance.

  Trey brought his forearms up, wincing at the bandages smothering both arms. It had been too close. He had another bandage he could feel glued to his chest, and one wrapped around the front of his neck. His heart fluttered faster. Too fucking close. He didn’t want to die. Planned on never dying, if he could help it, and definitely didn’t want to die alone.

  Venali’s scarred hand covered Trey’s, his fingers curling in. It was enough. Any more and the panic clawing up his throat would cripple him more than he already was.

  “Shit,” he croaked.

  “If it’s any consolation, your voice is now the hottest thing about you.”

  Trey looked over and found Venali close, his smile bright and exactly what he needed.

  “It was Conor. All of it.” Trey cleared his throat or tried to, but apparently the gravelly undertones were staying.

  Venali bowed his head. Trey squeezed his hand. Venali probably wouldn’t feel it all, but he’d feel something.

  “I know. When the guards brought you here, they summoned me. I didn’t even fucking know it was you to begin with. The blood… But I saw your arms and how the wounds matched Kalie’s.”

  Trey pulled his hand free and pressed it to Venali’s cheek. “He told you I left?”

  Venali swallowed. “I believed him.”

  “He knew what to say to hurt you…”

  Venali straightened and then stood and moved to the window. He leaned against the frame, looking out. “It’s more than that. I can’t…” Tension tightened his shoulders. “We’ll talk when you’re better.”

  “No, say it now.”

  “I can’t do this, with you.” Venali turned and leaned back against the wall. “The on and off again. Every time you return, I lose my mind over you, and then you leave and it kills me. I can’t survive this—us. I’m not…” He flicked his fingers. “I’m not made that way. I either have you or I don’t. And if I don’t, then fine, but I need to know, because every time I lose you…” He choked off his words and thumped his head back against the wall. “Fuck.” His lashes fluttered. “Every time I lose you, I die a little more inside, and there’s so little left…”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “When they brought you in—” Venali struggled with the words. A grimace pulled his mouth down and his eyes shone too brightly. “I was sure you were dead, and at first, it was… it was another dead assassin, and I knew that was bad. I knew I’d have to go after the killer, but then I saw it was you and I… I froze. Like I froze with Kalie.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked up. “I froze because I’m in love with you and you were leaving me again and I couldn’t stop it from happening.”

  There were no words, nothing to reply with, no way of fixing this. Alumn, he wanted to. Venali loved him, and suddenly Trey didn’t feel worthy of that love. Conor was right, Venali was too bright and fierce and fragile. Trey was afraid he’d break him. Everything he touched seemed to break, especially after the war.

  Venali let out an exasperated breath and moved toward the door.

  “Wait—”

  He turned but looked about the room, staying clear of Trey’s face. “Conor is gone… We searched the moor, found where you fought, but he’s still out there. I have to stop him.” He left, and Trey swore at the empty room. No way was he letting Venali do this alone.

  He threw off the blankets, waited for his head to stop spinning, and then gingerly dressed around the bandages. A few healers arrived and tried to fuss over him. He thanked them, ignored their insistence that he stay and rest and heal, and went in search of his blade. Assassins didn’t fucking rest until it was done.

  As Venali had
said, there was no sign of Conor. Just three-day-old blood. Trey looked at it. He was surrounded by Ashford sentinels, safe, and well on the way to recovery, but the cold still clung to him.

  A week passed, then two. The cuts had all but scabbed over and itched like crazy. They’d leave scars. Now he had some on the outside as well as inside. Conor was likely long gone. He’d have been a fool to stick around. Like Trey was sticking around… delaying his leaving another day, then a week, then more. But Venali had barely said more than a few words in passing.

  It was time to leave again, and yet… He couldn’t walk away again. He was torn two ways, caught between his work and Venali.

  Alador had a room alongside all other council members, where he conducted private meetings. Trey lingered outside the closed door. He hadn’t knocked, not yet, and probably should, but if he did that, he’d have to speak with the elder, and there was no going back afterward.

  “Come in, Trey,” Alador’s voice rumbled.

  The room was small, longer than it was wide, with windows at the back, and a whole load of assassin blades displayed on the walls. Some short, some curved, some fucking mean with fish-hook-like curves. Trey naturally gravitated toward the display. There had to be thirty, maybe more. Each one unique.

  “Retired blades,” Alador said. He moved from his position seated at the table and joined Trey by the wall. “When they come to me, and they’re truly ready to move on, they hand over their blades. I keep the weapons here.”

  “Why?” Trey’s voice still carried a ragged edge that hadn’t healed and wasn’t likely to. But Venali had said he liked it, which made the change more bearable.

  “As a reminder, but also just in case they ever want them back, or they’re called on to serve us again, should the dragons return to their old ways.”

  That was why AD required a blade to enter, because those who went there weren’t ready to move on. “I need to explain why I’m not back on the road yet.”

  “There’s no use in leaving too soon. You must heal. Trekking the roads and pathways is not easy.”

  “No, it’s not, but it’s not that. Why I’ve delayed, I mean.” Okay, this had been easier in his head. No use in dragging it out. “I’d like to stay in Ashford over winter. I can make myself useful with whatever tasks you have.”