Heart Blade: Blade Hunt Chronicles Book One

by Juliana Spink Mills

  The lodge was eerily quiet. Everyone must have gathered already at the gym. Diana passed empty rooms as she walked through the halls to the walkway. Outside, the birds were maddeningly cheerful, a stark contrast to the silence in the lodge. She pushed open the door to the gym to find the whole pack waiting in the sparring arena. Just as I requested, she reminded herself. But something was off. Diana stopped just inside the door, muscles tense, evaluating.

  There was a thrill in the air, the sharp scent of the hunt rolling off the demons in waves. And under that, here and there in the crowd, the tang of guilt pulling at her senses. She searched for Jude and found him watching her, his face unreadable.

  Diana walked forward until she was at the entrance to the arena. On the far side, facing her, was her lieutenant, Theo. Arms crossed. Chin up, provocation in his stare. He gave a slow, triumphant smile and Diana’s blood went cold. Snakes. Not Theo. It couldn’t be Theo, could it? But her lieutenant took a step forward and bowed. He straightened and spoke loudly into the taut silence.

  “In the presence of the pack, I summon Diana Raven to combat, and challenge her for leadership of the East Coast Hunt.”

  Diana made her face a mask. The ancient laws said she must consent to a leadership challenge or be executed. You’re Shade’s daughter, she told herself. So be Shade’s daughter. She nodded haughtily, faking an impassive calm her churning stomach belied. “Theodore Raven, in the presence of the pack I accept your challenge.”

  Theo swept his eyes around the ring. When he spoke to the expectant hush, excitement tinged his words. “You all know the law of the Hunt. This will be a fight to the death.” He bowed to Diana.

  She bowed back. “To the death.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Diana

  The pack was utterly silent. There was no conversation in the bleachers, no fidgeting, no movement at all. The focus was absolute, the concentration a tangible thing. Diana took that focus and made it her own, pushing all her doubts and fears to a tight box at the back of her mind and locking it securely. She brushed away the guilt and the shame, narrowing her perception down to the present and to that one savage, brittle moment of battle that lay ahead.

  Her blade whispered to life as she touched her chest and pulled it smoothly out. The blade was forged from her own soul, and the hilt was a perfect fit in her hand. The familiar weight was comforting, and she sliced the air once, twice, three times in a warm-up move. Across from her, Theo did the same. His blade was slightly longer, with a curved tip and a distinctive crimson hilt. No two blades were alike, just as no two souls in the world matched.

  Diana had seen Theo fight many times, on many Hunts. He had been several decades old already when she herself was Gifted, and was lieutenant to the former pack leader, Julius. When Diana had killed Julius, Theo had immediately transferred his allegiance and vowed to follow her leadership. She should have gutted the smooth-talking bastard at the time, instead of allowing him time to grow stronger.

  She knew she was the better warrior. How could he possibly hope to win? He would lose, and she would make sure he lost thoroughly before she ended this. She gave a feral smile as she paced the ring, and he answered with one of his own as he circled. He was all sleek assurance and cat-like grace, and she was taking him down. She concentrated all her anger into a hard ball of resolve in the pit of her stomach, and pounced.

  She slashed high, testing him, aiming at his neck, but he parried her thrust easily. The strokes flew faster and harder, both sides pressing for an advantage, and Diana felt a flutter of unease. Theo fought viciously, never ceding an inch.

  And he was good. He was very good, in fact, better than he was supposed to be. Diana had sparred countless times with Theo and beaten him every single time. How had he improved, seemingly overnight? Had he truly been hiding his skill for years, building it up in secret?

  Diana had no answers, only questions.

  They broke apart, stepping back to measure each other up.

  “Snake,” Diana hissed. “Just how long have you been planning this?”

  Theo laughed. “You’re weakening, Diana. The pack senses it. I sense it. Once you were strong, but now… I’m done with second place. I’m taking over.”

  “Why now?” she asked as they began circling the arena once again. Theo had been a lieutenant for over a century. First for Julius, then her own. He could have rebelled anytime.

  Theo took his time in answering. Diana knew she hadn’t imagined his hesitation. Finally he snarled, “Why not?” and leapt for her throat.

  She caught his blade neatly and swept it aside, countering with a thrust that just missed the mark. Theo pressed in, stepping up the attack, his height and longer blade an advantage. Diana was quicker, Theo had longer reach: that was the crux of the matter. Blows rained down as she danced out of the way, just out of his line of attack, but barely. And then one of his strikes slid under her defense, landing on her ribs and cutting her to the bone.

  The pack shivered in appreciation as the blade sliced her open and the gym filled with the scent of her blood. Diana faltered for the tiniest moment. She had fought many challenges over the years to hold on to her hard-won position as Mistress of the Hunt, but in every case she had been utterly and entirely convinced of her superiority in combat. But this new Theo, this focused fighter, she knew nothing about. A whisper of doubt flickered to life, bursting free from the corner of her mind she’d trapped it in and catching her pain like flame on kindling.

  Theo put all his strength in his next strike, but Diana caught it in full on her blade and both swords shimmered out. However, Theo’s hilt had smashed two of her fingers against her own sword hilt and she clenched her jaw to keep from crying out.

  Theo didn’t wait for his blade to re-form. He kicked her legs out from under her and sent her sprawling to the ground. Then, before she could roll out of the way, he followed this with another kick to her cut and bleeding side. He tried to kick her again, but she managed to get out of his way and clamber to her feet. Her whole side throbbed and she was sure that last kick had cracked a rib. Focus, Diana! she told herself. She was a Huntress, damn it! She could take a beating.

  Her inner phantoms were screaming to get free, and she heard their taunting cries: shame, shame, shame… “No,” she said out loud, not quite sure if she was talking to Theo or the ghosts. She drew her blade again, and so did Theo.

  Once more they circled each other, blood dripping down Diana’s side and leaving a trail on the wooden floor. She gripped the hilt of her sword awkwardly, fingers refusing to bend properly. Theo was laughing, not a scratch on him. She didn’t have a lot of time. Her fingers were stiffening at an alarming rate and she was tiring from blood loss. It was all or nothing. She snarled a challenge and went for his face, aiming at his demon eye.

  But Theo was waiting. He stepped aside and slashed at her arm. She managed to spin out of his way, so his blade only grazed her lightly, but it ruined her balance and he took full advantage, moving in fast to push her sword arm away and pull her close, trapping her against him with an arm at her throat. He turned, forcing her to face the pack, his breath hot on the back of her head.

  “You. Are. MINE,” he roared as he twisted her soul blade away, sending it shimmering out. He snapped her wrist like a flimsy piece of balsa wood and threw her to the ground, landing another kick on her mangled and broken side.

  Diana collapsed in agony. Despite her training, she screamed. Theo screamed too, a blood-curdling howl of victory echoed by the entire pack. Diana’s ghosts were also screeching as they circled her prostrate form. Shame, death, vengeance, SHAME, they cried. But one of her guilt phantoms stood still. No, said the lingering memory of Emily Deacon. Not yet. You don’t get to die yet.

  Theo raised his sword to make an end of things. No, shouted Emily, for Diana’s ears only. At the last minute, as Theo’s blade swept down, Diana threw herself to the side. And then she surprised everyone — herself included — by getting to her feet and ru
nning full tilt for the window. She smashed through the glass and took off through the woods.

  Her last glimpse of the lodge was of a gaping, startled Theo standing frozen in the abandoned arena.

  She stopped looking back and ran steadily on and on, blanking out the fiery pain from her side and aching hand. Instead, she focused on her breathing and her steps, keeping an even, regular pace and sticking to wooded areas. She knew all about pushing herself, she’d been doing it for her entire Gifted life. Her body would heal, given time.

  By late afternoon she was sure she’d thrown them off, at least for the time being. She was skirting residential neighborhoods, trying to keep out of sight. A blood-drenched teenager running for her life was bound to raise suspicions. She slowed as she came to a large, wooded property with a stream running through it, and stopped at last to drink water and wash blood and sweat off her face.

  What had she been thinking, running like that? A demon didn’t run from a challenge, especially not a leadership challenge. A challenge meant kill or be killed. There were no other options. And now she was an outcast, her life forfeit.

  When she raised her head from the stream, Emily Deacon’s phantom was waiting. “Go away,” she told it. “You’re not real. You’re a hallucination.”

  Am I, Diana? Am I truly? Do you imagine me, or have I slipped through the cracks in your mind and made myself whole?

  Diana ignored the ghost and pulled off her top, softening the ripped part with water so she could pull the fabric from the wound. The dry blood cracked and the whole thing started weeping again, the blood seeping out and running down her body. Diana gritted her teeth and applied pressure to the wound. She worked clumsily, one-handed.

  The bleeding slowed and stopped as her body did its best to heal. She pulled off her socks and wadded them up, using her bra to hold them in place against the cut. There was nothing she could do about her wrist and fingers: she had nothing to splint them with. She wriggled awkwardly back into her ruined top and sank to the ground. She longed to curl up in a ball and sleep, but instead she forced herself to think.

  “Options, Diana,” she told herself. She had no money. No pack member would take her in. Her Liege would show no mercy. And Theo would never stop hunting her. He would never be accepted as Master of the Hunt until he proved her dead.

  Why was she even running? What was left for her? She’d been furious at Theo’s betrayal, but now that paled as the familiar chorus started up again. Shame, shame, shame… Diana raised her head to see Emily Deacon watching her.

  Of all the Hunts Diana had lived through, Emily’s had hit hardest. And she knew why. She touched a hand to the noose scars around her neck. After Diana had been Gifted, her human memories had choked away like the air from her lungs. For a century and a half, she’d remembered only the briefest flashes of her mortal life. Until three years ago, in an empty Hartford repair shop, when Diana had watched the young Deacon boy struggle against the ropes that tied him.

  Suddenly, the night she’d died and been claimed by Shade had come rushing back, a complete memory, entire in its horror. The cattlemen, Johnson’s boys, had waited until her father was away on business. They’d attacked the sheep ranch Diana lived on and killed her mother. They’d held Diana tight, made her watch. The Deacon kid’s desperation as Emily died had been an eerie echo of her own. In that long-buried past, Diana’s mother eventually fell silent, but Diana had screamed — in rage this time — until her voice cracked and shattered as the cattle boys strung her up, a warning to her father.

  The two nights — in Hartford, and on the Arizona ranch — had superimposed for a moment, and the Deacon boy had taken Diana’s form; his mother, her own mother’s face. For the first time, Diana had tasted her own guilt.

  Diana blinked, almost surprised to find herself in the present, the ghostly chorus still chanting their liturgy of blame. The phantom of Emily Deacon stepped forward, moving ahead of the other shapes. No. She’s mine. The voices faded away and Emily held out a hand. You want a reason to go on? Adeline.

  “Adeline?” Diana spoke out loud, startled. “You want me to protect Del?”

  Adeline, and my son. The phantom image beckoned. Come.

  Diana got up, body protesting. The phantom led her to a clearing in the woods where a house sat at the end of a long driveway. It looked empty in the late afternoon gloom, without a flicker of light or life. Diana looked up and saw storm clouds piling in. The over-long summer was finally at an end.

  Rest. Recover. Be ready, said the phantom. She faded away, leaving Diana alone and trembling in the darkening woods.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ash

  “Del, stop pacing,” Ash said. “Sit down, please? You’re making me dizzy.”

  He was sitting on the sofa, a blanket around his shoulders. He’d been sleeping off and on all day, his body wracked with a fever that just wouldn’t let go. They’d been through the cabin’s meager first-aid supplies. The single dose of painkillers had expired two months ago, but he’d taken them anyway. Both he and Del had matching bandages on their wrists, covering the damage from the handcuffs. It made them look like they’d been in some sort of suicide pact.

  Del sat next to him and felt his forehead for the hundredth time. “We need to get you home. You need medical attention.”

  “You said I look fine.”

  “I know. I did.” Her voice was heavy with frustration. “On the outside, you look fine. Well, besides this.” She lightly touched the bruise on his cheek, and he flinched. “But whatever that guy did with that spell fire, who knows how deep it went? I think your body’s in some sort of shock. You need a hospital, Ash. You need to go home. Also, it’s Tuesday night.”

  Ash pulled the blanket tighter as yet another bout of shivers raced through his body. “Screw Tuesdays.”

  “Hey!” She waggled a finger in mock severity. “That’s not angel talk. Tuesday, remember? You told me you had to get back, that you have finals tomorrow.”

  Finals. The day he’d been working toward all summer. And every year before. All those laws he’d memorized, the dates, the preternatural organizations. He should have felt excitement. After his finals and battle tests were over, he’d be a field apprentice. And then, in December, he’d swear his oaths and become a full sentinel. The Scion-in-waiting, next in line to lead the Chapter once Deacon stepped down. He’d trained his whole life for this.

  Instead, all he felt was dread. The years stretched ahead: years of being chained to an oath he wasn’t even sure he believed in. How long until he turned as dead inside as his dad? How long until he stopped caring, or questioning?

  “What if I just don’t go…”

  He hadn’t even realized he had spoken out loud until he saw Del watching him, eyes wide. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the sofa. “I don’t know what I mean. It’s just— I’m tired, Del.”

  “I know you are. You need rest, and a proper doctor.”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. I’m tired of all of it. I’m tired of being me. James Asher Deacon. Do you know how many James Deacons there are in my family? I think I’m the tenth. In a row, handed down father to son. It goes all the way back to, I don’t even know. Sentinel families trace their bloodlines a long, long way.”

  He shrugged into the blanket. “I’m just tired,” he repeated.

  She reached over once again to feel his forehead, and he leaned into her hand. “Did we really kiss yesterday,” he asked quietly, his eyes still closed. “Or did I imagine that?”

  “It was real.” She didn’t move her hand away. It felt cool against the heat of his feverish skin. She didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. Eventually she dropped her hand, but only to move closer and gather him in so his head rested on her shoulder. He felt the soft whisper of her lips on his hair.

  His eyes fluttered open. “We really have to go back?”

  “We do. I can’t handle this on
my own. If something happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  She kissed his hair again, and he sat up straight. “Fine,” he said. “We should pack.”

  “I already packed, while you were sleeping. I tidied up, too. We should go now, before it gets too dark.”

  Ash stumbled as he got to his feet, momentarily dizzy. He stood still, waiting for his head to clear, and then he set the blanket neatly on the sofa and followed Del outside. The sky was darkening fast, and not just from the approaching evening. Storm clouds boiled in the sky, heavy-bottomed and iron-gray.

  Del was standing by the truck, a weird look on her face. She picked up something from inside the bed. A carton of milk. “We forgot the groceries,” she said forlornly. “The milk must be spoiled by now.”

  It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. The milk was yesterday, before the witches, before pain, and before tears. Before the kiss. The milk had been the promise of things ahead. Now it was all over. He would return to Hartford. Del would disappear and that would be the end of it all. And even the kiss was yesterday’s memory.

  “Del…” It was a plea, but even Ash didn’t know what he was asking. She shook her head and put the milk back, turning away to hoist their bags into the bed of the truck.

  “You can throw it away in Hartford,” she said. She was talking about the milk, or at least he thought she was. But her face was so sad it broke his heart. He took her in his arms and held her tight. Her arms slipped around his waist and suddenly she was crying softly against his shoulder.

  They stood like that for a long while until the rumble of thunder and a splatter of raindrops drove them into the truck. Del darted out quickly to lock the cabin door and replace the key in the lean-to, and returned damp and out of breath.