By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  He brushed hair and sand from her face. “Look,” he whispered.

  She glanced past him. Constellations glowed in the water, tiny stars shining in the dark. She tried to sit, and Liam helped her up.

  Not constellations. Not stars.

  Eyes.

  People peeked out from beneath the water’s surface, their eyes shining with luminance. One sat nearby, half on the sand and half in the surf. Water whispered from the woman’s hips and—

  No. Fins?

  Iridescent scales shone in the faint moonlight, clad their bodies from hips to… fins.

  “They saved us. Mermaids.” Liam slowly helped her into his shirt, guiding her arms into it, and the soaking wet fabric clung to her skin.

  She’d burned the kraken. And everything within a fifty-foot radius. Her mouth fell open. Liam. She ran her hands over him.

  “Are you all right?” she rasped. “Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m fine,” he whispered.

  A song bewitched her ears. A beautiful vocalization, almost like whales singing, from the mermaid in the surf.

  In the soft moonlight, her hair reflected a radiant light green. She held a curled fist to her chest and leaned in, repeating the soft, warm song. Its notes embraced, comforted. She blinked, flickering the stellar glow of her eyes. She extended an arm toward her people in the water, the dozens of them.

  A harmony of her vocalization came from the water. Passionate. Heartfelt.

  Tears rolled down Rielle’s cheeks, and she dabbed at them with a wet sleeve. She couldn’t understand what the mermaids said, but the song wrapped her in love and kindness, warm and soft.

  Rielle brought a hand to her chest, holding the scale, and curled a soft fist there, like the mermaid. She and Liam were alive thanks to their kindness. “Thank you,” she whispered back hoarsely.

  The mermaid hummed a lilting note, her lips curved in a smile, and she inclined her head. Another soft harmony followed. As a wave receded, she receded with it.

  Rielle reached for Liam’s hand. The water’s constellations flickered, dimmed, and faded into the night.

  Such stunning light…

  The kraken. The kraken had been drawn to her candlelight spell. Its glow.

  The glow of the mermaids’ eyes… Had it preyed on them?

  She turned to Liam, who watched the waves with a wistful gaze. “You came after me.”

  “I should’ve known the fires would draw the kraken.” He lowered his gaze. “You saved us all.”

  That was one way to put it. She’d nearly gotten them all killed.

  “I suppose now I can’t shrug off my men’s stories about mermaids.” He drew in a lengthy breath. “You know, it’s said that mermaids gave away a scale to a rare lucky few, and if you sing to it underwater, mermaids will hear it and come to you.”

  A precious token. She’d treasure it.

  The Rift had returned the kraken to this realm… But the mermaids, too. She blinked, looking out to sea. “Did you free everyone?”

  He nodded. “As best we could.”

  There were no ships in sight. Blackness stretched in every direction. How far had they gone? Last she remembered…

  She stiffened. “Brennan.”

  Liam hugged her and held her close, but she pulled back, forcing him to meet her gaze.

  “Tell me.”

  “Rielle… He was…” His voice died. “He was hit by cannon fire.”

  A shudder rattled her bones. He’d be all right… Wouldn’t he? She looked inward and pulled on the bond; he pulled back, but faint, distant.

  He was alive. But had they left him out at sea?

  She trembled. “Did you save him?”

  Liam took a deep breath. “My crew pulled him aboard, badly injured. I fear the worst.” He softly moved her dripping, sandy hair from her shoulders. “They told me you’d jumped into the water, and I came after you.”

  He’d come after her, not knowing whether she’d live or die. He hadn’t abandoned her to her fate.

  She hugged him. “Thank you… But how will your crew manage without you?”

  With a soft chuckle, he pulled away. The moon shone in his eyes. “You vastly underestimate Sterling. He’ll look for us come dawn.”

  Smiling, she nodded. If Brennan was aboard, Sterling would have no trouble finding them here.

  Here. Where was here, anyway? How far had the mermaids taken them? She glanced around. They were on a tiny island, no bigger than fifty feet long, with a few palms clustered at one end. Would it still be here at high tide?

  “Come,” Liam said. “Let’s get a fire going.” He rose and held out a hand to her.

  She took it, and they made their way toward the palms.

  Blinking away the rain, Jon looked out across the land of the Vein, its untimely lush greenery the bridge between him and the elven host. The thaw had come, chasing away the winter, but the heavens remained a dreary gray, interrupting only to weep from time to time. Leigh, Tor, Pons, and the rest of his High Council crowded nearby, witnesses and the visible remembrances of duty, along with Aless, whose solemn presence conveyed her support.

  When his eyes met hers, she inclined her head and pulled her gray fur stole closer. They’d been inseparable the past few days—and nights—and although she hadn’t asked it of him, he’d have to end things with Nora. It didn’t feel right otherwise, especially since and Aless would wed soon—if she agreed after he told her everything.

  The wind howled by, billowing his cloak back toward the Bay of Amar, an old way, a past way, too far behind and too small for the king in him to dare seek.

  Across from him and past the standing stones, the elven emissary stood at the tip of her squad of guards, clad in an Emaurrian cloak, her hair woven into tight braids that made her stern face even more severe; the length of her locks was a shock of white-blond down her back, riffled by the wind like a bright-hot fire. She looked him over across the distance with a head-to-foot appraisal.

  “Aiolian Windsong,” Leigh supplied, whispering in his ear. His platinum-white hair was half-plaited in the Vervewood style. “Behind her brick-fortress face is the light-elves’ wealth of wisdom.”

  “Wisdom she will share?” Jon hissed in reply, his gaze unwavering.

  Leigh sighed. “That is the agreement.”

  Aiolian and her guards had refused refreshment upon arrival; their instructions were to swear the oath before taking any solace.

  And so, here they were, in the rain, hungry and staring at each other.

  Another thud as the cleaver came down, and the huntsman finished butchering the stag. Blood pelted the earth as he shook off the blade.

  A fresh kill to bind a pagan ritual oath. He sighed. Whatever was required. Olivia looked up from the flesh and at him, her eyebrows raised in a question.

  He nodded to her, and she, in turn, nodded to the drummers, who began their beat.

  “We’re ready,” Jon said to Leigh, who inclined his head and moved to stand just outside the circle of standing stones.

  Aiolian strode to the circle and cast off her cloak into the hands of her guards.

  He, too, moved to the circle and cast off his own cloak and robe, which his valets accepted. He set foot inside, the grass cool against his bare feet, and she followed.

  The drums beat louder, or deeper, vibrating, pulsing like resonance, but he resisted the call, resisted the incomprehensible power that called to him here. He walked to the center and held out his arm in greeting.

  She clasped it. “Well met, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle of Emaurria,” she said in Old Emaurrian.

  “Well met, Priestess Aiolian Windsong, Memory of Vervewood,” he replied in Old Emaurrian. Hopefully the words he’d practiced with Aless were right.

  “Today, I come as my queen, Narenian Sunheart of Vervewood.” The grim line of Aiolian’s mouth remained even as she spoke.

  “I understand.”

  With a nod, she released his arm.

  He held out
his left palm, and she intertwined her fingers with his, formed a cup; Olivia entered the circle and placed the warm, bloody stag’s heart in their hands, then exited and distributed the rest of the stag’s parts around the standing stones. A circle of flesh.

  Four months ago, the thought of standing on a Vein with an elf, holding a freshly killed animal’s heart, surrounded by its flesh, swearing a heretical oath, invoking pagan gods—the very thought would have leashed his footsteps to the nearest monastery, begging for blessing, pleading to be sent to Monas Tainn’s sanitarium to take the Fifth Vow of silence and the Sixth Vow of enclosure.

  Droplets of rain fell on his skin, myriad and unremarkable, like myths coming to life, like blasphemy, sin, and heresy; like tragedy, blood, and living death. He exhaled lengthily. The outlandish things that become familiar.

  When Olivia finished the ring of binding, he met Aiolian’s eyes. Now or never.

  “Hear us, Anaruil, god of suppliants! Hear us, Ririnith, glorious goddess, mother of all! Hear us, Urrenael, devourer of flesh!” He invoked the elven gods overseeing the oath ritual—not Terra. The dead gods. The dead gods he prayed now lived again. “Come, with friendly spirit, and listen to our oath!”

  Aiolian repeated the invocation in her native tongue, soft sounds like leaves rustling, a breeze through the tall grass, a stream whishing by.

  He shivered. “Let the sun, the sky, the rivers, and the mountains bear witness to our oath. Let all of you here today bear witness to our oath,” he called, and the crowd answered. She repeated, and the crowd answered.

  He closed his thumb over the heart. “Queen Narenian Sunheart of Vervewood, I, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle, swear my whole-hearted loyalty to you and your heirs, to turn over any traitors found plotting against you or your family, to punish any assassin of your line, and to be a friend to your friends and an enemy to your enemies, in perpetuity.” He covered the stag’s heart with his right palm.

  Aiolian’s moon-silver eyes locked on his. “King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle, I, Queen Narenian Sunheart of Vervewood, swear my whole-hearted loyalty to you and your heirs, to turn over any traitors found plotting against you or your family, to punish any assassin of your line, and to be a friend to your friends and an enemy to your enemies, in perpetuity.” She covered his hand firmly with her right palm.

  “Let this oath become one with me, as bread and wine, and pass on to become one with my sons and daughters,” he called, and when she repeated, they raised the heart in unison, each took a bite. A drop. They split the heart and devoured it. He chewed the raw, soft flesh and swallowed. Another drop.

  He fought back a heave and swallowed. “If my oath be broken, let my sons be pursued by your avenging furies. I swear these things to you, before Anaruil, Ririnith, and Urrenael, in good faith or else lie clothed in earth, my kingdom devoured.”

  An ancient page from one of Olivia’s books sprawled before his mind’s eye, a great wolf’s maw devouring a king, his people, his land, consuming all, taking all, Urrenael of the elven pantheon, cunning eyes, sharp teeth, fur black as night, appetite as deep as the Shining Sea itself.

  He blinked as Aiolian repeated the words.

  “Let all of you here today bear witness to our oath,” she called, and the crowd answered. He repeated, and the crowd answered. “Let the sun, the sky, the rivers, and the mountains bear witness to our oath. Hear us, Urrenael, devourer of flesh! Hear us, Ririnith, glorious goddess, mother of all! Hear us, Anaruil, god of suppliants!” She invoked the gods, and he repeated, his gaze falling to his bloodied hands.

  Olivia broke the circle of flesh and entered with cloaks for them both. Jon nodded his thanks and aimed a cordial smile at Aiolian. A flicker of pleasantry, then the grim line of her mouth returned like a change of the guard defending a fortress.

  “Come,” he said, tipping his head toward Trèstellan. “Let us celebrate.”

  Aiolian narrowed her eyes and called out to her people.

  “Finally!” Leigh said, clapping him on the back. “By all the gods, living and dead, tell me there’s gin.”

  He forced a smile. Celebrate, he’d said, but no part of him wanted to laugh and make merry. He wanted to learn the secrets of the Earthbinding immediately, and secure the safety of his realm—and Vervewood.

  Now that he’d sworn his loyalty to Queen Narenian, her emissary would reveal all, and he’d finally become what his people needed him to be.

  As the dawn brightened the sky, Brennan paced the quarterdeck. Rielle pulled on the bond, and he still felt it. She was alive, and she needed him.

  Sterling stood at the wheel, his sharp brown eyes fixed on the horizon. His short sable hair wisped in the southerly wind.

  Brennan sighed. “Can’t this ship go any faster?”

  Sterling’s face remained emotionless. “We’re full sail with the wind at our stern. If you find eight knots too slow, Lord Marcel, you’re welcome to try swimming.”

  Brennan rolled his eyes. Great Wolf spare him slow, giant ships, the open water—in fact, sailing altogether. The Lothaires may have been built for water, but the mountains were where he belonged.

  “And you will have to share how you were able to take a cannon blast to the back and survive, let alone pace my deck and insult my ship.”

  “I told you. I have a healing rune on my foot.” He’d had the healing rune tattooed onto the sole of his foot for precisely this reason. His rapid werewolf healing would need explanation—lest someday he be suspected of being something other than human.

  “I’ve never seen a healing rune work like that.”

  Brennan scanned the horizon, searching the direction from which she’d pulled on the bond.

  Smoke.

  He gripped the railing and squinted. There, in the distance, grayish-white smoke rose into the reddened sky. Would humans be able to see it? He could wait. Perhaps the quartermaster would catch sight of it.

  “Are you certain this is the right direction?” Sterling asked.

  “I told you. I saw her swim that way.”

  “They could be anywhere.” Sterling reached into his coat for a spyglass.

  See the smoke. Brennan’s grip on the railing tightened. The wood creaked under hands fighting the Change.

  Sterling collapsed the spyglass and nodded to Brennan. He took a step closer to the railing. “Hoist gallants, royals! Land dead ahead!”

  Cheers erupted from the crew, and a renewed energy invigorated their work. Brennan fixed his gaze upon that distant smoke, damning his eyes for their inability to decipher anything on the tiny island. The grayish-white smoke meant living wood and foliage. Palm trees.

  Was she all right?

  The night before, as the iron had broken his body, he’d seen a flash of white-hot light in the bay’s dark depths. Pyromancy. Rielle.

  And that light had been the last of her he’d seen before pain and darkness had claimed him.

  When he’d awoken—a stiff surprise to all the crew—Sterling had told him Liam had gone after her.

  Then Rielle’s stranger of a brother had done what he couldn’t. Brennan suppressed the lick of jealousy abrading his chest. But the tightness there didn’t subside. I should’ve been there.

  As she’s been for me.

  For a decade now, Rielle had been there for him, answering every moon to grant him control. She could have locked herself up in that Tower of hers, made access very difficult and conspicuous for him, but she hadn’t. As much reason as he’d given her to hate him, she’d protected his secret. Protected him.

  And time after time, he’d failed her. Failed to come in time to Laurentine nine years ago. Failed to set aside his own hurt and fear three years ago.

  No more.

  He would be there for her. When she needed him, and not just when she called, he’d be there for her.

  He left the quarterdeck for the main, and headed to the fore, all the way to the ship’s prow. The dawning light had brightened to day, setting the turquoise waters aglow
with sunshine.

  Even with the wind against him, he could smell the smoke now, see the fire on the small island.

  And two figures.

  He sucked in a breath.

  There. He wanted to shout it to the crew, but he bit his tongue. The foolish anxiety nearly eclipsed his survival instincts.

  Great Wolf, he wanted to jump from the ship and swim for that close-by shore.

  Knot by knot, she became clearer. The waters had peeled away the pretense, woken the rawness inside her. Her hair had escaped its braid and flared around her head like a great golden mane of wild curls. She wore a billowing white shirt that fell to mid-thigh.

  Waving, she opened her mouth wide—shouting—still too far away to discern. But relief glittered in her face, in her smile, her half-moon eyes, and appled cheeks.

  Next to her, Liam waved, bare to the waist, his own blond mop of hair tousled by the wind. He put an arm around her, and they shared a smile.

  When Sterling finally deployed the pinnace, Brennan could have jumped from his own skin. His foot tapped the wood as he rowed, and it wasn’t long before he abandoned the oars and cleared the side to rush through the knee-deep water.

  Rielle.

  She ran to him, jumped, and threw her arms around his neck. The scent of smoke, sand, and seawater flooded his nostrils as he breathed her in, enveloped her in his embrace. He ran his hands over her—over her back, her shoulders, her neck, her head.

  “Are you all right?” He repeated the question, repeated it again and again through all her nods. He held her tighter, closer, his palms finding her real.

  “I’m all right,” she said at last, her voice a relieved rasp below his ear. “Liam said you’d been injured…”

  “I’m fine,” he whispered, and pulled away to look at her.

  Her fingertips strayed from the nape of his neck and into his hair. She raised her face to his, her sky-blue eyes locked on his, and she heaved breath after breath through parted lips; he wrapped her in his embrace, bowed his head closer to hers, her full lips mere inches away. His heart stopped, and he dared not breathe. Rielle.

  Each exhalation, sweet with date fruit, passionate and eager, coaxed something deeper from him. Something dangerous.