The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1)

by Lampley, Alexis

  Bolengard was indeed well hidden.

  Before he knew it, the ground had changed again to stone, and the distant sounds of city bustle filled his ears. It had an odd nonconformity about it, as if the citizens walked around for pleasure, no steady rhythmic undercurrent of the daily marches, no schedules or duties to attend to. How could anyone live like that?

  After several turns, they stopped. A door hinge squeaked.

  “Set him up,” Harold said. “I’ll check the triggers.”

  Killian's stomach sank. He hoped Harold wasn't planning to torture him after he’d turned himself over so freely. He didn’t want to be forced to fight.

  “This way,” George said. He grabbed Killian’s forearm and guided him forward. With some maneuvering, George got Killian where he wanted him. “Sit,” he instructed.

  Killian obeyed—slowly, just in case. The chair was well-used, the cushion flattened to hardly more than two layers of fabric. A luxury compared to his accommodations of late. The tension in his muscles released. He relaxed against the chair’s tall back.

  “George.” Harold’s voice was muffled, as if through a wall.

  “Wait here,” George said. A door swung open. “And you can take that off now.” The door clicked shut.

  Killian reached and fumbled with the knot at the back of his head. The blindfold dropped away. He blinked the dim light into his eyes.

  A stark white room surrounded him. The only furniture was his chair and two others. The only color came from his sweaty, dirty clothes, and the sparkling red-gold light pushing its way through the heavily rippled glass of the window. He couldn’t even make out the shape of the closest building, so it would be of no help in determining his location.

  Above him, flaming bugs crawled over the ceiling. Fireflies. Now the smokeless smell made sense. But the thought was staggering. There had to be millions of them in Bolengard, for him to have smelled them outside of the city. Why hadn’t any Watchers detected that? How far into the Waylands were they?

  The Strattons’ voices drew his attention. He stood and drifted toward the door.

  “Why is it deteriorating so quickly?” George asked.

  Harold grumbled something.

  A groan followed. “We’re looking at, what, sixty—”

  “Forty.”

  “—days till it’s completely exposed?”

  Curiosity flared in Killian’s chest.

  “Asrea.”

  “Do you think she’s had enough time?”

  “Plenty.”

  She? He wondered if this was the roof rat. He was anxious to speak to her, to learn how she knew his brother.

  “Let’s take care of this first, then we’ll go straight to the prison.”

  He slipped back to the chair and dropped into it. The door opened the next moment. The Strattons spilled through. Their clothes were torn, their faces roughed up from their fight with the Watchers, their expressions ruthless.

  Whatever they were discussing outside the room had sapped any shred of humor lurking inside them.

  The Strattons stalked to the other chairs and adjusted them to face Killian, then sat. George clasped his hands together, sitting straight and tall in his chair. Harold rested his elbows on the white fabric arms and leaned forward, letting the whorl of muddy green settle in his eyes. Killian steeled himself, tightening down his urge to react before Harold could come at him with that snarling, heated interrogation style he’d come to expect.

  “Your brother.”

  Clearly Harold wasn't going to waste time getting back to the point. It was as if the passage to Bolengard—and the time it could have taken for him to dial down the intensity—hadn't occurred at all.

  “I want your word you’ll let me speak to the girl.”

  Harold glared.

  “It won’t be today,” George said.

  They must have someone interrogating her now. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

  “When we’re finished with her.”

  He might've been their prisoner, but he wasn’t going to let them treat him like one. “I’ll speak with her tomorrow.”

  The static jumped to the surface of Harold’s skin. George shot his brother a look, then returned to Killian. “You have our word.”

  Harold’s eyes were nothing but slits beneath storm-cloud brows.

  George clasped Killian’s hand in the complicated finger interlock of the Wordkeeper’s Seal.

  “Now. Hunter.” Harold insisted.

  Killian withdrew his hand and sat back. “Like I said earlier, I didn’t know his name until I started listening for it.”

  George nodded. “In your dreams.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know exactly. The dreams are vivid. I don’t forget anything when I wake from them. It’s like they’re my own memories, except, I’m in his body.”

  Harold’s lips furled into a frown. “You communicate?”

  “No. It doesn’t work like that.” He considered the possibility. “It might, I suppose. But I haven’t attempted it.” And it wasn’t like Hunter would take what he was seeing as real. Killian hadn’t. Not for years. Not until the Trials.

  George shifted and leaned forward, his greying hair falling over his shoulders. “When you see your reflection—in your dreams—do you look like yourself, or your brother?”

  “Both.”

  “Both?” The Strattons perked simultaneously.

  Killian frowned. He thought they’d understood that already. “We’re twins.”

  Harold’s thick, peppery brows twisted in suspicion.

  “I know it’s hard to believe me, but do.”

  “Problem solved.” Harold’s sarcasm grated Killian’s nerves.

  “Look, it was the spy—one of your men—who pieced it together for me in the first place. I didn’t know my father was using my dreams like a map to hunt down the son he never wanted.”

  George cocked his head. “And that’s what set you off.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why spare the spy?” Harold asked. “More advantages for you dead.”

  “It wasn’t only what he said about your brother, was it?” George had not so much asked as deduced.

  Killian paused. To voice the reasons he’d made that decision was just… too much. “No. It wasn’t.”

  The Strattons eyed him expectantly.

  He couldn’t tell them everything. Some of it was none of their business. But some of it… Some of it would solidify their trust in him, would guarantee him a way to his brother.

  “My father wants the Onyx Vial.”

  Both men flinched—hardly more than a twitch, but he saw it—and bristled with varying degrees of concern.

  Killian spoke quickly, keeping their minds on his words rather than their own ideas about this. “He knows it’s in Helede, and that the Rebels—that you and your men are searching for it.”

  “How?” George asked.

  “Tortured a neutral. The man knew something—bits and pieces—not enough for him to understand any of it. My father filled in the blanks. And then the spy he caught—he was part of the group who turned my father off the trail—placed false leads—”

  “We know,” Harold interrupted.

  “He wouldn’t talk under the torture. That’s why the spy became my final task. But it wouldn’t have mattered if they did. My father is cunning. The moment the man was caught, and his part in the leads was discovered, my father knew you were ahead of him in your search.”

  “And why does he want it?” Both men looked wary.

  Killian considered the question. If they were indeed ahead of his father, then they knew the answer already. Or part of it. “There’s this… document. It was coded and in Elder Script. It took a year of translation for a single page—”

  "Who translated it?"

  "A prisoner in Toriel. A cryptographer."

  “What did it say?”

  This was not new information. He could see it on their faces.
“That the etâme inside the Onyx Vial—if he drank it within a minute of its being opened—would make him a Phoenix in human flesh.”

  George let out a low whistle. “Indestructible.”

  “Yes.”

  Harold shook his head. “Immortal.”

  “Without question.”

  The two men stared at the walls, clearly trying to settle the information into their minds. But Harold snapped out of it and turned hard, hawk-like eyes on Killian again. “Why were you told?”

  Killian puffed his chest, stuck his chin out. “I’m his son.”

  George’s gaze returned to Killian. “One whom, should the King get his wish, will never attain the throne.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Not the reason.”

  George nodded, concurring with his brother. “What's your part in this?”

  Killian bit his cheek, his nostrils flaring. They were going to dig out every detail his father had spent years hiding from the world. But he had no choice. He had to get to his brother before his father did. “He can’t touch it.”

  There was silence. He held their stares, watched as the pieces fell into place, their expressions shifting to eagerness.

  “You can,” said Harold, as George said, “He needed you to hold it, didn’t he?”

  Killian nodded. Guilt slipped like a knife between his ribs. Now the Rebels —no, the Shadows—knew what only the Watchers had known all these years.

  “You’re Tieren.”

  “Tierenvar,” Killian corrected.

  “And you didn’t want the job.”

  He hated himself for his weakness. But George was right. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “So you spared our spy because he gave you a way out.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Such as?”

  He was slipping. He shouldn’t have said that. “Nothing that concerns you,” he said.

  This time Harold’s chuckle brimmed with humor. But it was no less unsettling. “Fine.” He stood. “We’ll let our fallen Prince hold a few secrets.”

  Killian watched him. A few more than you should, old man. “Are we done?” he asked.

  Harold caught George’s eye. “For now.”

  “Great.” Killian stood, stretched to hold down the sudden shot of anxiety that coursed through his veins. “I want to see my dog.”

  Chapter 17

  Hunter stared into Falken Fyrenn’s eyes. He stared back, unblinking. The posters’ depictions were strikingly similar to the man he’d seen so often in his dreams. Each poster along the street taunted him—angered him, because he didn’t know who he was anymore and it was all Falken’s fault.

  Perry’s face appeared, blocking the poster. Several of his Goldilocks curls flopped over his forehead. His eyes glittered with good humor. “We know you’re doing that brooding, silent thing right now, Hunter,” he said. “And it’s really fun for all of us.” He rolled his eyes. “But do it inside, would you?” He nudged Hunter with his elbow.

  A grin stir beneath the despondency and anger and confusion that had filled Hunter in the records room. Perry slipped through the door beside him. Hunter heaved a sigh, gave the poster one last look, then opened the door and followed.

  He was greeted by a cramped vestibule with wooden walls and a dingy glass door. He peered through the grime, making out the restaurant. Its dark, wooden tables and plush leather chairs were occupied by a handful of people all shrouded in thick white smoke.

  Hunter’s face twisted in disgust. Nothing about this place was going to lift his spirits. And it certainly wasn’t going to clear his head. Clog his lungs, maybe. He started to tell Perry this, then realized he wasn't there.

  “Perry?”

  The outer door opened and Tehya popped inside.

  “Where…?”

  She seemed confused by his confusion, and then she smirked, and whispered, “Of course he did. This way.” She stepped toward the wooden wall decorated with a hand-painted tin sign that read: Sit anywhere you’d like, except for the floor.

  She pulled off her gloves, put her hand on the sign, and slid it left. Behind it hid what looked like a keypad carved in wood. Tehya had no trouble depressing the numbers in a long and complicated series, each button clicking under her fingertips like a computer keyboard. When she finished, the sign slid soundlessly shut, almost catching her fingers.

  With a soft whoosh, the wall receded, revealing a thin opening. Tehya slipped through it like a fox to her den. Hunter wasted no time darting after her. He ducked through the opening and emerged in a decently large restaurant crowded with people.

  The sounds of conversation and clinking glasses and utensils filled the air. It smelled like Grandpa's morning coffee, fresh greens, and roasted meat. A warmth hung in the smokeless air, thawing the tips of Hunter’s fingers and nose.

  He turned back to see if the others had followed them. But the door was already closed. No seam was visible in the wall. The sign hanging on this side read: Tip your waitress. She’s not a Huntsman (so you know she needs the money).

  “There’s Perry.” Tehya tapped Hunter’s shoulder. “Come.” She cut a path through the restaurant, leaving Hunter to chase after her.

  As he wove between the furniture, he noticed how mismatched and varied everything was. No two chairs were alike. No table had the same shape or height. In fact, the style of each piece was so different, they might all have come from different eras. And the people who occupied them were equally varied and mismatched.

  He caught up with Tehya just as they reached the tall, round table at the back, where Perry sat, waiting. He flashed his easy grin and crossed his bulky arms, elbows on the table, the sleeves of his coat stretching unwillingly for the muscles inside them. Hunter lifted himself onto the chair beside Perry, considering a few pushups before going to bed tonight. Tehya took the seat next to Hunter.

  “So this is a Shadow restaurant?”

  “The Dusty Shelf," Perry answered like a travel guide. "The safest place in Eastridge outside of your own home.”

  Hunter shook his head, but cracked a smile. “So, why here? How is a restaurant supposed to cheer me up?”

  “If you have to ask, then you’ve never had a Hopscotch or a Fizzle.” Perry shot a hand in the air and waved at someone in the crowd.

  “A what?”

  A tall, broad woman in a deep red, figure-flattering dress and white apron appeared beside the table. Her tar-black hair was pulled into a clump at the top of her head, a stick of some kind shoved into the thick of it. Her weary smile was kind. “Be having our usu—oh. You’re new,” she said, catching a good look at Hunter.

  He averted his eyes and nodded.

  “The usuals sound great, Madame Tenner, thanks,” Perry said. “And get this one a Fizzle sampler.” He leaned into Hunter’s personal space. “You can try my Hopscotch.”

  “How about the others?” the waitress asked, her voice a low purr, as Perry pulled a Scale and several boults from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Finn and Dilyn should be here any moment,” Tehya told her. "Wil and Grant are busy at home, preparing travel schedules, I think."

  Madame Tenner nodded. "It was nice of them to come home this break. The older ones don't generally come back until they've completed their Mastery."

  "It was because of me and Perry," Tehya said. "They wanted to escort us back after our first quarter."

  "Ah." She smacked her lips. "Such good older brothers."

  Perry, for once, didn't crack a joke about Grant in response. "They really are. Most days." Okay, so maybe he cracked a small joke.

  "Too bad they can't escort us on the return," Tehya said.

  "No?"

  "Too many of us going this time," Perry explained.

  "One less than there should be," Tehya said softly.

  Madame Tenner's full lips tightened together. "Oh, yes. Ariana. I heard. I'm so sorry."

  Tehya waved her words away as if they were gnat
s. "Thank you, but it'll be okay."

  The woman studied her for a moment, then nodded curtly and pat Tehya's shoulder. "I sure hope so." Then she turned and disappeared into the mess of tables.

  Hunter waited until the heaviness of the moment was too much. “You come here a lot?” he asked, hoping to break the mood.

  Perry shook his head. “No.”

  A small, slow smile. “Never,” Tehya said. Then she winked at him.

  That wink was a trap. Hunter found himself suddenly, entirely, unable to look away from those vibrant green eyes. For a few seconds—or maybe an eternity—her gaze froze him. And then he realized that her eyes were locked on his with matching intensity.

  His chest harbored a slight tingling burn. Somewhere far away, his inner voice screamed, Breathe.

  “Your drinks.”

  Madame Tenner’s voice startled Hunter’s exhale from his lungs as she set down the drinks. He jerked his gaze from Tehya’s face and glued his attention to the cups in front of him. Madame Tenner was gone before Hunter returned to his senses enough to thank her.

  Unable to think of anything to break the awkward silence, he continued to focus on the drinks. It was amazing how conscious he was of the distance between himself and Tehya. Perry hardly registered in his awareness—except that he spoke, which reminded Hunter that he, too, was just a seat away from him.

  “Try my Hopscotch first,” Perry said, indicating a glass tankard thick with frost.

  Its contents reminded him of orange juice, but closer in color to sunflower petals in late October, when lower temperatures had siphoned the brightness from them. Hunter grabbed the cold handle and lifted the glass to his lips. The drink was cold, but it warmed his tongue as he swallowed. It went down with the taste and consistency of melted butterscotch ice cream. “Not bad,” he said, licking foam off his top lip.

  Perry chortled and slid a rectangular platter containing four tasting tumblers in his own drink’s place. “Yellow one’s Obble Fruit. Blue’s Blisterberry—and tastes much better than it sounds. The green is Tartenjaede I think. And the pinkish one’s Pearberry—pear and foxberry.”

  Hunter lifted the yellow glass and took a swig. It tasted the way it looked: like apple juice. But it tingled on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, as if carbonated. “Oh. I like this,” he said, and downed the other four in quick succession.