by H. D. Gordon
Black Heart smiled widely, his hands spreading out at his sides. “We are in a jungle in the Southlands. Untamed lands. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Charlie chose his words carefully, eyeing his brother with uncertainty. It had been a long time since the two of them had last seen each other, and who knew how much Michael could have changed. If some of the stories he’d heard were true, the answer was a lot.
“You gotta take me back, Michael.”
Black Heart had begun walking through the trees, but he stopped now and turned back to his brother. His eyebrows rose slightly at the same time his eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Charlie Boy.”
Charlie met his brother’s stare levelly. “I’m ‘spected of murder. This won’t look good.”
Black Heart nodded slowly, stepping forward and placing his hands on Charlie’s shoulders. “Did you commit a murder?”
Charlie almost said no, but then he thought about Brad Milner, about how he had crushed the old man’s throat in his fist. It had been self-defense, but Charlie wasn’t sure that didn’t count as murder. He said nothing.
Black Heart smiled. “That won’t look good either, little brother.”
Charlie took a cautious step backward. “Did you set me up for this, Michael? What’ve you done?”
For the first time Charlie could remember, anger flashed behind his brother’s eyes as he looked at him, and it was such a cold thing that Charlie felt a shiver race up his spine despite the warm air. He swallowed once, seeing now the man who called himself Black Heart rather than the sibling who’d raised him, taken care of him. Charlie’s heart broke a little realizing that at least some of the rumors had to be true about his brother, and if they were, Charlie needed to tread carefully. Michael had always had a temper. Who knew how time had fueled it?
“What have I done?” Black Heart said, his voice as sharp as a blade. “I have done nothing.” His hands clenched into fists as he took a step toward Charlie. “It is them who have forced such actions from me. They are guilty of the crimes they accuse me of. Now they’re just getting what they paid for.”
Charlie held very still, watching his brother the way one might watch a pacing lion. “And what’s that, brother? What do you plan to do with the Black Stone? Kill all the Highborn women?”
Black Heart laughed. It was an ugly sound. It made Charlie’s teeth clench. “And why not? What do I care for their precious ladies? Did they care for us during the Great War? Did they care for you or me when our parents died?”
Charlie felt a twist in his heart, a small burning of a scar that had mostly healed long ago. Apparently Michael’s hadn’t healed so well. “That was long ago, brother. Lotta people died. highborns too.”
Black Heart slammed his fist into his hand, a vein pulsing in his pale neck as he leaned into Charlie’s face. “Why do you think that is?” he asked, spittle flying from his lips. “Why do you think we were so unable to defend ourselves against the other races? I’ll tell you why, because the royals keep all the powerful Magic to themselves. They locked away the Black Stone and refused to use it to protect their people. They put laws on certain Magic, deciding amongst themselves what is appropriate for use, forbidding others to use it and in turn using it as they see fit.” He paused, rubbed his temples the way he used to do when they were just boys and Charlie was being particularly exasperating. “I am disappointed in you, Charlie Boy. Are you so easily fooled? Do you not question the decisions made for you?”
Charlie thought that made two of them for the disappointment, but he said nothing, something he knew was best in most situations. His brother had obviously fallen off the deep end, had become a fanatic. Things in the kingdom were not that bad. No one was suffering, and for the most part the people could do as they pleased, live and work and make a life for themselves. His brother’s desires weren’t about getting justice, they were about revenge. And that made him more dangerous. In fact, Charlie thought he was growing more dangerous by the minute. He had to tread very carefully. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
He looked around, his stomach tightening as the gravity of his situation settled over him. He was not standing in a jungle arguing with his brother. He was in the middle of nowhere—untamed lands—arguing with a madman. And surely suspected of murder by the woman who walked his dreams at night. Let’s not forget that.
He chose his words slowly, his deep voice soft and low. “You would force me into this, Mikey?”
Black Heart waved a hand, having regained his composure, looking more like Michael than Charlie thought was safe to believe. “I am opening your eyes, Charlie Boy.” His wide smile returned. “You will thank me in the future. Come, let me explain things to you. There is much you don’t know.”
Black Heart turned to go. Charlie didn’t follow. “The Hunters will come lookin' for me.”
Black Heart turned to face his brother once more, still smiling. “Yes, Charlie Boy, that’s the plan. That is the plan indeed.” He wrapped his arm around Charlie’s shoulders. “I hear there’s a new Keeper. King Syrian’s last living child. I do hope she is as good at finding things as her older brother was. I’ve always wanted to make Princess Surah’s acquaintance. I hear she’s quite lovely.”
Charlie looked up and saw the murderous gleam in his brother’s eyes, and his heart did a dead standstill.
The shit just kept getting deeper.
CHAPTER 20
Surah patted Samson’s head before entering the Grand Room, where she knew dozens of royals would be waiting. The tiger leaned into her touch, his amber eyes sympathetic.
Remember, he told her silently, don’t mention the Black Stone. Your father doesn’t want them to panic. He paused. I don’t want them to panic, either. It makes them smell like salted meat.
Surah nodded once, gave her tiger a quick hug, and took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and tilted up her chin, slipping on the royal posture and mask that she’d learned from her mother as a child. This was certain to be an unpleasant experience, but in her life she’d dealt with thousands of those, and her mother always said that composure was key. Surah agreed. She rolled her neck and went into the room, Samson at her heels.
As soon as she entered, dozens of faces turned toward her and conversation stopped. The lords and ladies bowed to her, and Surah nodded to them, her heart twisting to see that many of them had tears streaked down their faces. Merin Nightborn’s family stood off to the side in a cluster, mother and father clutching each other, cloaks all black to represent their mourning. Everyone in the room was wearing black actually, and for a moment Surah’s mind flashed back to the demons that had flown out of her father’s fireplace, with their shrieks of anger and agony and their dead, rotted faces.
King Syrian sat at the head of the room on his throne, an enormous thing made of metal and polished wood the color of violet, where a similarly violet runner led up to his feet over the marble floor. Around him stood his two new personal guards, since his previous ones had died in the demon attack, which was another thing Surah was not supposed to mention. She walked gracefully up to her father’s side, taking the hands of those she passed and offering condolences to those who had lost someone in a sort of macabre dance train. Merin Nightborn’s mother had smeared mascara under her puffy red eyes, and her hands shook as she kissed the back of Surah’s hand. Surah pulled her into a hug and held her for a moment, earning a collective sigh from the room. This was why she was so loved in the kingdom, and she knew it. Not because she went around smiling and greeting her people, but because she actually cared when they were hurting, and she hurt with them. Maybe even more so than her father.
And now they would turn to her not just for comfort, but also for answers and justice. Her respect for her lost brother grew in that moment. Being Keeper was not a pleasant job.
When she reached the head of the room she turned and faced her people, bowing to her father as she stood beside his throne, waiting for him to start the dialogue, but someon
e in the crowd spoke first.
It was Merin Nightborn’s father. “My Liege,” he said. “What is being done about my daughter?” His voice broke on that last word, and Surah’s chest tightened. She’d just lost her own brother last month, and she understood his heartache. She understood it too well.
King Syrian spoke gently, his composure as solid as Surah’s, though she knew he didn’t like any of this just as much as she didn’t. “We are doing everything we can to bring light to the situation regarding Merin’s untimely death, Lord Nightborn,” he said. “And we will bring to justice those responsible.”
Gregert Lancer spoke next, his voice as unsteady as Lord Nightborn’s. He was the father of Cynthian Lancer, the second Highborn lady who had been killed in the past two days. A death a day. No wonder the tension in the room was thick. If this kept up, if Surah couldn’t find a way to stop it, soon the whole kingdom would be crying out for answers and justice.
In fact, Samson could smell the fear and anxiety on them already, but he didn’t tell his mistress this.
Lord Lancer seemed to speak Surah’s thoughts. “My daughter makes the second murder in two days,” he said. “Something very serious is going on here, and we need answers.”
Surah didn’t miss the fact that his eyes flicked to her as he said this. There were nods of approval and mumbles of agreement. She cleared her throat. “We offer our sincere condolences for your losses, my Lords and Ladies.” She looked to her father and put a hand on his shoulder, which he reached up and covered with his own. “We have all suffered too much death lately.” She looked back to the crowd, swallowing back just enough of her grief to keep the tears out of her eyes and still show her empathy. “And I intend to see the loss stop here.”
“This is Black Heart’s work,” Lady Nightborn called out, swiping at the black smudges under her eyes. Her voice was clear and strong but laced with pain. Surah’s respect for the lady grew at this. Most Highborn ladies held their tongues in such meetings.
“We all know he’s behind this,” Lady Nightborn continued, “and he has gone too far. He must be brought to justice.” Her small, gloved fists clenched at her sides.
Now there were outright shouts of approval, and Samson swished his tail around him as he sat by Surah’s side. His eyes watched them all as he breathed in the smell of the emotions in the room that had kicked up a notch at the mention of Black Heart. Surah placed her free hand on his back for comfort.
She took another deep breath, her mind flashing back to an hour ago when she had seen Black Heart standing beside Charlie. When Charlie had escaped with him. When things had gone from not good to worse. Now her people were calling for blood, and she couldn’t blame them. Hadn’t she gone off to kill the man who murdered Syris just a month ago against her father’s orders? No, she couldn’t blame them, but she still wasn’t sure whom to blame, and now it was her job to find out.
She was also not supposed to mention Charlie’s escape. As of right now, three people knew about Black Heart’s acquisition of his brother, and she wanted to keep it that way. She opened her mouth, not sure what to say, but knowing it was her turn.
“I will find him,” she said, her soft voice carrying sweetly and strongly through the room. “And if he is responsible for this, he will pay.”
And she could see by the looks on their faces that they were going to hold her to that.
CHAPTER 21
“Surah, sweetheart, may I have a word with you?” King Syrian asked, after all the people had left the room.
Theo gave a low bow and left too, leaving her alone with her father and Samson, who spoke up in her head.
Run for it, love. I’ve got a feeling this isn’t a conversation you want to have.
Surah ignored him, rather than snapping at him about how that was not in the least helpful. “Of course,” she told her father, taking a seat on the arm of his throne, smoothing her cloak out delicately beneath her. Syrian looked a little peaked, his cheeks slightly red and complexion very pale. She could tell he was thinking about her brother, one of those moments when the grief just seemed to slam into you harder. She was well acquainted with it. She took her glove off her right hand and touched her father’s forehead. He was a touch feverish. Her heart seemed to skip a beat.
“It’s going to be all right, father,” she said, giving him a small smile, which he returned. “I’ll figure this out.”
He took her hand and kissed it, looking up at his last remaining child with gentle love. “I know that, Surah. I know.” He coughed into his hand, a deep hack that shook in his chest. Surah’s brow creased, heart skipping once more.
“You should lie down,” she said. “You don’t sound well.”
Syrian waved a hand. “There is no time to rest now, dear. Too much to be done. There is a matter I want to discuss with you.”
He coughed again, and Surah couldn’t say why, but her gut twisted at the sound of it. Syrian’s next words shocked her out of whatever she was going to say about it.
“I want you to consider accepting Theodine Gray’s proposal for marriage.”
Surah stood up involuntarily, the movement less graceful than was her custom, and paced over to Samson, who had a look on his face that said told you so. Surah resisted the urge to thump him on the head. Now her heart wasn’t skipping, but racing.
For a moment she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Then she said, “Surely you don’t expect me to consider this while the Black Stone is missing and Highborn women are being murdered.” Her tone just bordered accusatory, and when her father coughed again she felt bad for this, but it was better than voicing the Gods no! that was bouncing around in her head.
Syrian removed a handkerchief from beneath his cloak and coughed into it. He saw there were spots of red on it when he removed it from his mouth at the same time Surah did. He tried to hide it from her sight, but she stepped forward quickly and snatched the white cloth from his hand. Her heart dropped as she looked down at the smattering of blood there.
Her breath came short, her voice falling to just above a whisper. “What is this, father?” she asked, holding the handkerchief up for him to see. “What is ailing you?”
Syrian eyed the cloth with distaste, and Surah could tell by his face that he had been keeping this from her. He seemed to be unable to find his words. Samson crept forward and sniffed at the blood on the cloth, his amber eyes were tender as they flicked to her.
I smell demon poison in his blood, Samson told her. He must have been scratched or bitten.
Even in her own head Surah’s voice sounded far away as she stared at her tiger. “Are you sure, Sam?”
Quite sure, love.
Surah’s heart clenched and seemed to slide down low in her chest as she looked at her father. Her voice sounded robotic and far away to her own ears. “Where is it?” she asked.
Syrian released a heavy sigh, as if he would really rather not show her, then pulled the collar of his cloak aside, exposing his shoulder. Four long, ugly scratches were raked across the skin there, an angry red color puckering the edges. The centers of the gashes were black, giving a visual of the poison inside his body. Surah’s hand came up and covered her mouth, her breath catching in her throat. She gave no effort to try and repress her reaction. She didn’t even think to.
She stripped her glove from her other hand and gripped his arm, leaning in close to get a better look. “You’ve tried healing it?” Her voice still sounded funny, as if she could hear it outside of herself. Stress seemed to keep mounting and mounting in the past two days.
“Of course I’ve tried healing it,” Syrian said, gently removing Surah’s hold and replacing the collar of his cloak, hiding the ugly marks.
Surah’s heart hurt, actually hurt, as she looked at her father, into the violet of his eyes which were the same color as her own. He was all she had left as far as family went, and her heart knew those scratches were death marks. Unless she could find the Black Stone. Black Magic was the only thing t
hat could heal a demon poisoning, and Surah could see on her father’s face that he had already thought of this.
“You used the piece of Black Stone that was removed from Brad Milner?”
Syrian smiled as if this was a silly question, and she felt the urge to snap at him, but didn’t. “Yes,” he said. “It’s not big enough to perform the kind of healing I require.”
Surah had figured this, but she still had hoped. Her mouth fell open, wanting to ask him why he hadn’t told her, why he hadn’t mentioned the urgency of her success in the mission ahead of her. Instead she leaned forward and kissed her father’s brow, which was warm and clammy under her lips. Syrian gave a small smile and patted her hand. Surah straightened her back, taking a deep breath, trying for her composure. “I will find it, father,” she said, and swallowed. “I promise.”
Syrian smiled again. “I know you will, Surah. I know.” The trust in his eyes made her heart hurt more still. He coughed into his hand, using his Magic to summon another kerchief, which went to his mouth a clean white and returned splattered with red. He eyed the mess and crumpled it in his fist, regarding his daughter with gentle eyes. “Think about what I said. Please.”
Surah nodded, but instead of thinking about Theo, what she thought was, I’m coming to find you, Charlie Redmine, and Gods help us both when I do.
Samson heard the thought, so clearly it had been projected, and he turned his amber eyes up to his mistress, studying the expression on her face. She hid her emotions well, but she couldn’t hide them from him, and what he saw there made him think: Oh. Oh, dear.
CHAPTER 22
The fire in front of him blazed orange and blue, and Charlie stared into it, listening to its crackle and the silent night around him. His brother sat next to him, also silent, letting his words sink in. Charlie knew Michael was waiting for some sort of response, but he didn’t have one to give. He couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say, not with the emotions that were roiling around inside him.
