by V. C. Willis
“Fine. I highly doubt you’ll change my mind,” she disparaged.
She came over and began kicking my feet and legs. I shifted to the side, a wider stance and leaning more weight on my back leg. Swapping my hands, she raised my elbows and pushed my arms back. Stepping back, she circled once before getting more aggressive. Grabbing the sides of my face, she moved my head, tilting my face up instead of my normal downward glare. Shoving down on my shoulders, she made me squat deeper, legs aching to hold the weight of the blade and my back burning as muscles stretched in new ways. This is going to make riding Basque painful tomorrow. Circling back to the other side, she nudged my elbow again and scoffed. A shove on my chest made me grunt under the shift in weight and duress rattling my entire body.
“You feel that?” she spoke flatly. “That’s his starting stance, and he would hold it for hours. Hurts like shit. I know from personal experience. Hated this part.”
I swallowed. “Now what? What’s the next swing and pose?”
“This is the first lesson. You don’t break this stance until the sunrise.” Her tone was dark as she paced around me and pushed my face back into position when I tried to look her way.
Without warning, she punched me in the gut. The wind left me, my legs shaking. Wheezing, I was desperate to bring the air back through the stinging fire that made up my lungs. Gritting my fangs, I gripped the claymore tighter, trying my best to reset in the way she had put me in until I could feel the burn of the pose come back to life. Remember that sensation. This is the right pose. She wouldn’t lead me astray. To her, it’s impossible to master anything that she knows is of his design and will.
“Good,” she breathed.
She circled and slammed her heel into my lower back, right into my kidney. A cry escaped me, and my footing shifted. I scrambled to reset, and she slammed down on my arm with the point of her elbow. I glared at her she walked faster now, another heel crashing into my thigh as I managed to get my footing back into place. A cold sweat began, but I persevered through the pain. Another fist in the ribs. I sucked in air and focused on getting my elbows back to where—a punch to my spine sent me over my limit. Another cry of pain and I fell forward against my will, my legs numb and nerves on fire.
Crossing her arms, she frowned. “Ashton never fell once. If he didn’t dodge it, he took it in like a stone wall.”
Anger boiled at my core. Scrambling to my feet, I kicked off my boots and tossed my shirt and jacket to the side. My entire being was aflame with adrenaline and rage. Jerking the claymore up, I cracked my neck and rolled a shoulder. I can do this. They made him sound like a monster, then I too will become just that. After all, I need to protect John at all costs. Taking a deep breath, I squatted into the newly learned offensive pose. My eyes were on Red Wine as I did so, the pain from her hits trying their damnest to hide the way I needed my body to feel to master it. She’s making sure I can’t tell how to hold the pose! I could see her eyes dance around my pose, checking the placement of my feet, the hands and elbow height.
“Chin up.” She started her approach and I tensed. “You need to give the enemy the sensation they are below you, not above.”
She kneed my ribs, and something cracked. Wind left me and I clenched my jaw. Fuck, she broke a rib. She can’t be serious. A boot to a thigh, a punch to the jaw, jabs to the gut, and heels to the back. The sadistic dance continued, and no longer could my eyes focus on the birchwood trees surrounding us. She circled time and time again. I dropped to a knee, losing balance. She responded with a boot to my face, and I rose back into position without complaint. Everything hurts. I knew only pain, and there was no sign of sunlight in the black sky overhead. Steam rolled from my lips and nostrils. Each pant rattle shook my lungs until it ceased in a sharp stabbing sensation if I dared inhale too deeply. Blood dripped thick off my chin, my lip busted and cheek swollen. Sweat painted my skin as bruises and abrasions ran streams of scarlet down my body. A lifetime of torture seemed to pass between us. My mind went blank, all thoughts proven impossible.
I lost count of the number of hits, the number of cracks as she broke me in ways I didn’t think possible. At one point, I coughed, and blood rose to my lips and dribbled down my chin in a gush. The world grew dark, my vision failing in the building agony. My sense of smell was destroyed after taking a punch to the face. A crack and blood trickled from my nose and over my lips. Another hard hit and my shoulder popped. The claymore dropped to the ground. Visceral, I roared, popping it back in as I crushed it into the pommel. Without even a thought, I went back to the position. All I knew was anger in my new world of torment. Another punch and my brow split, and my eyesight went dark at last.
The next wave of hits seemed nothing but a bad dream. My pain hit a peak so high, it couldn’t be added to nor surpassed. I was dry heaving, throbbing and ill from pain and adrenaline mangling and I wanted… Blood. A single thought is all I had. All I could smell, taste, want… Blood. A strange calm came over me, the hit and jabs making me aware of where she circled. It was like a rhythm being beaten into a drum and all I could think was… Blood. Her leather gauntlets hit harder now, scrapping and ripping my skin. Rivulets tickled down my torso. It seemed odd as I recognized it: my blood.
Through it, I could smell beyond my own for the first time, and my heart raced with another wave of adrenaline. I could smell her blood under the boots and gauntlets. She was taking a beating, my body like a boulder, and I tried to search for her through the darkness. Salt. The sky had faded to a dark blue, lavender rising in the east. I glanced back to where her fist thudded hard against my torso. Something cracked. Not mine. She clenched her jaw, tears running down her face. Salty blood. Her mask had tears of blood painted on its face much like her own as she continued beating and kicking me with the despair written on her face. The non-stop assault had her panting, but she had not wavered. At some point, I had stopped falling to my knees or dropping the claymore. Something inside me… broke.
An orange ray of sunlight broke through the trees. The telltale sound of a blade unsheathing brought me to react so fast, I hadn’t registered what it was I had done. My body held the pose, the claymore not dipping in the slightest as I crushed her wrist in my right hand. Another squeeze and it popped and cracked under the pressure. The dagger fell, and she paled, locking eyes. I felt like a confused monster, nothing like I had experienced with the Madness. This is different. Something ancient and pure. A need for survival at any cost by way of fighting. She tried to pull her wrist back. I squeezed tighter, and it cracked again. A wail escaped her, and she pounded against me.
“It’s not fair!” The words took a while to push past the fog that had settled within my mind. Her blood. She’s family? To me? “How could you do it!”
My thoughts scattered, I blinked in confusion. “I did what you asked of me.”
“I know…” she sobbed. “And curse you…”
I let go and she fell to the ground. Ignoring the pain of my broken body, I stood over her. At first, chin down but I shifted, my chin high as I leered down at her. Her braid lay in the open, 17 knots. The rolls of knots started from the top of her forehead and made a mohawk down, but that was to trick an untrained eye. Before me was a broken-hearted queen.
“Who are you?” I wiped the blood from my face.
She was taking her gauntlets off, calming herself. “That’s a story for another time.”
“What will it take to get that answer?” I squatted, coughing, and spat blood to the ground. “Dammit…”
She refused to look me in the eye. “Find Frank and bring them back into the fray. We can’t win against Fallen Arbor without them.”
“When we’re done in Captiva City, we will head to Winter’s Perch.”
Locking gazes with me, she marveled, “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I’m a quick study.” My eyes fell to the crushed, broken wrist, and my heart flutt
ered. “Can you even heal that without…”
“Forget about me.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Your priest has been watching us all night.”
Blood. That craving was… Trying to question what I had brought upon myself chasing after my brother’s shadow, I looked to where every part of me had been gravitating toward. John leaned against a tree with arms crossed. At some point, he had retrieved my things and folded them at his feet. Birds were beginning to sing and fly across the sky as the heat of the morning sun melted icicles that rained down on us.
“Do we have a deal?” John’s voice was aimed at Red Wine.
“He will need to heal before we go,” she warned. “He will need to heal often every night we camp; can you endure feeding a monster, priest?”
“Are you going to teach him to be Ashton or not?” There it was. The stubborn need to hear the exact words from the person that it matters most from. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” she hissed, pushing a bone into place in her wrist. “But it’s going to take its toll on me, you, and especially him. It’s going to compromise my ability to protect you all.”
“I’ll do what is needed then.” He grabbed up my things and marched up to me, scoffing. “You’re both a mess. I just pray Fallen Arbor will get as rattled when he reminds them of Ashton.”
Scowling, she warned, “No one should be able to draw blood easily on him if he can master his style. Use that sense of survival in every fight. He fought like an animal, Dante. I endured the training and failed many times over what you did in a mere few hours. I can only train you so far because I never mastered his style. No one could master or duplicate it.”
Their words didn’t matter. I gripped the front of John’s coat and pulled him to me. Kissing him deeply, I drew the blood I thought endlessly about during the barrage of suffering. My blood. My body ran hot as he pushed hard against my own lips before breaking it. Only mine.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This is all I can do…”
“Me too…” I whispered, kissing him deeply, hungry for blood, hungry for him, hungry to feel complete again.
This isn’t what I wanted our love to be, but it’ll have to get us through this if I’m to find a way to protect him. We both know the price, and we both are willing to pay it…
Chapter 9
Assassin Trade Secrets
Not another word was exchanged between the three of us for some time. I had gone to the stables, prepping the horses, and walked them to the front of the inn. Never had I been so desperate to wear my mask as I did in this moment. My wounds gone, John’s blood still haunting my tongue, the agony in Red Wine’s eyes told me volumes of her own personal sacrifices. We were doing something so dangerous, it seemed we had given our very souls over to an unknown darkness.
I can’t let it bother me. Shifting in Basque’s saddle, I couldn’t shake the tension my muscles felt. I’ve taken a beating, but last night… It’s left my body strung tight. I feel as if I must relearn to use my own arms and legs. Another wiggle and I changed my posture completely, at last feeling as if my body would allow me to sit still.
“That’s better,” Red Wine commended me, and I sighed. “I imagine your body is restless, but that stance is designed to not let you fall, and it will change how you carry your body. You sit in the saddle like he does now.”
“I feel like a visitor to my own flesh,” I protested.
“You did insist becoming him,” she disputed.
Her words bit at me, and I wanted to know more. “How thirsty was Ashton as a bloodeater?”
Biscuit stopped, halting due to her body language.
Swallowing, I spun Basque and asked again, “He was a bloodeater, wasn’t he?” Why is my gut twisting? But I need to know. Do I even want to know…?
“That’s just it.” Her eyes were fierce under the mask, and she spoke with certainty. “I never once saw him feed.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Frank once told me he had only fed on one person… and after they passed…” She stumbled on her words. “But that was long before I was even born, so I can’t say. All I do know is he grew weaker by the day because of that… and…” She touched her mask, her voice barely audible.
“Don’t blame yourself.” My words caused her to jerk her hand away, and I moved Basque forward again, leaving the conversation there. I’ve caused her enough pain as it is.
“W-wait.” Her horse danced on its hooves and caught up. “What right do you have to forgive me on his behalf?” she spat.
I stiffened. “That wasn’t what I meant.” Basque halted, and she spun Biscuit around. I spoke with authority, “He could have easily made the choice to abandon you. Let fate take its course. You can’t be mad at a choice someone else made, even if it cost them their life.”
Basque tried to go around, but she backed Biscuit in the way. “You sound so much like him in this moment…” I flinched at her words. “It makes me nauseous.”
With that, Red Wine turned and trotted to catch up to the front of the group. Why do I feel some pride in putting her in the corner enough to confess that?
Valiente had taken point as they strolled down the road. They had passed some loggers and a few travelers on foot, but nothing out of the ordinary for the region. Red Wine had stayed silent for hours. In the middle, John and Sonja spoke of The Church and her stay in Glensdale. During winter, she had assisted John with the church while I had been forced to be briefed on royal matters and anything that could be of use for bargaining peace with King Regius. Remember, you’re now the Crown Blood Prince of The House, Dante. Goosebumps rolled over me at the memory of my father’s warning. But should you ever decide you must take up this birthright, I want you to be well-versed in what I have done to prepare our nation for your reign.
A curious smell drifted on the wind, and I began searching the woods to my right. Scanning the trees, I looked for the only thing I could describe as a jasmine-laden individual. We had travelled for a while, the smell following and changing distance on occasion as if gauging the idea of approach. When a few travelers showed up on the bend, it disappeared completely, but soon after reappeared. At last, I rode up to Red Wine, who seemed unphased by my approach.
“I smell jasmine,” I announced. “But it’s the wrong season.”
“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Ashton,” she drawled. “Keep as you are.”
“What does that mean?” I ignored the condescending attitude.
“It’s an informant, but I am waiting for a more natural opening for us to meet.” She shifted in her saddle. “This is something we’ve done for a long time that’s worked in our favor as bloodeaters. Granted, our guild has roots in flowers and herbs being founded by apothecaries, but I am glad to hear you have a nose for it.”
“Is it always jasmine in winter?”
“It’ll either be something that shouldn’t be blooming in the season or all wrong for the location,” she offered in short.
“Is there ever a smell that means something other than someone is delivering a message?”
She stiffened in her saddle. “Yes, but I’ve only experienced that once.”
I waited for the answer, but none ever came. “Well, what is it?”
Looking to him, she brought her horse to a stop. “Honeysuckle.”
“Honeysuckle?” I furrowed my brow. “What kind of flower is that?”
“A wonderous smell from a special garden in Prevera. Only place I have ever seen it, though they say it’s from a completely different continent.” She snorted before finally saying, “You smell that flower, you run for your life because Fallen Arbor is upon you. Trust me—you will know it and never forget it.”
The sun had rose to late noon and Valiente paused, turning to the group. “Take a break? Eat something?”
We all nodded, but Red Wine nudged me, and we left them an
d the horses behind. I followed her through the trees. The road faded from view before we hit a small clearing. We had only stood there for a minute before a familiar mask appeared and kneeled before us. Ale from the time with Madame Plasket in the guild lair.
“Master, the bridge isn’t safe. Fallen Arbor has been spotted there,” warned Ale.
“We can handle their henchmen,” retorted Red Wine.
“It’s Landon,” countered Ale.
The silence and shift in Red Wine made my gut twist. Was it Landon of the Fallen Arbor that put the scar there? Or has something to do with Ashton going missing? Shit, I didn’t even tell her he was there at the stables that night.
“And they say he’s been injured,” he offered.
“That man? Injured?” Red Wine snorted, and at last, pressed on, “What kind of injury?”
“His right hand and arm we suspect. He’s been keeping it gloved since he reappeared at the bridge camp,” he reported.
“And where did he go in that span of time?”
“We lost him, but he went north before we lost him. Mead said there were two more with him when she last had their tracks.” He spoke in an apologetic manner as if this was unacceptable to even be reporting to her.
“It can’t be helped. Landon is smart and quick-witted.”
“The right hand—it should be missing a finger and a scar on the wrist,” I offered, and the two assassins spun to look at me. “Henchman in tripoint hats, all black. Landon wears a bowler hat and a rapier masked as a cane, yes?”
Red Wine gripped the front of my shirt and coat, growling as she spoke, “How do you know this? Have you been working with Landon this whole time?”
Inhaling deeply, I could sense the fear in her shaking hands pressing against me. “He’s the one who jumped me in the stables.”
She released me and began pacing. “I take it all back.”
“Take what back?” I asked, baffled at the reaction.
“Ashton would’ve taken the same beating if Landon was leading the team that jumped you.” She sounded thoroughly impressed as she continued with her assessment. “You should have been captured, and I would have been none the wiser. Exactly how did you manage to land an attack on him?”
