DAIMON (Nerys Newblood Series Book 1)

by Lucy Smoke

  My palms sweat and my muscles strain with the effort to keep me up. My elbows shaking, my knees knocking. I take a deep breath before chancing a look over my shoulder at Holden’s dark head several feet below. The asshole. He had climbed down this death mountain without batting an eyelash. His muscles didn’t lock up and freeze on him whenever he looked down. You know, looking back, I don’t think he ever actually did look down. At least, not far past his next hand or foot hold. My muscles, however, haven’t relaxed since he told me we were doing this and then proceeded to climb over the edge while I sat there denying what I was about to do.

  “There is a space just a few inches to the right of your left boot about half a foot down.” I whimpered and clutched my sweaty hands against the rock face as Holden coaches me. “Don’t worry, you’re almost there,” he calls up. “If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

  “I hate you!” My scream is really more of a low whine because I’m afraid if I get any louder the mountain will hear and roar in anger, causing me to lose my precious hold and fall to my doom.

  “You’re doing fine, princess.” He chuckles. I picture my hands wrapped around his neck for the rest of the climb down. I feel marginally better when I even picture myself shaking him back and forth, his big body rolling, his head swaying side to side–still with my hands around his neck.

  “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I’m not gonna fall. I’m not gonna fall.” I chant to myself as quietly as possible and don’t look down again until I feel my feet touch solid ground. When that happens, I let go of the side of the mountain and cry out with relief, flinging myself against the ground and into Holden’s arms. His whole body shakes with his laughter as I clutch the lapels of his cloak. As a reward, he swings me up in his arms and proceeds to carry me for the next leg of our journey. I hold him tighter and don’t even think of protesting. I don’t mind, it makes me feel like I actually am a princess. Besides, I’m not sure my legs could work even if I begged them to.

  “You did great,” he says.

  “I’m not doing that again.” Another chuckle rolls through him.

  “Whatever you say, princess.” I narrow my eyes.

  “I’m serious, Holden. If we come up against another mountain, we’re not climbing, we’re burrowing.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Why does it feel like you’re making fun of me?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” There’s still a stupid-looking, yet attractive, smile on his face though. It lights up his features. He even has a dimple along one cheek.

  I hum, tapping a pointer finger on my chin. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

  He shrugs, the muscles of his arms bunching under my weight. I take a moment to examine him. Brown eyes stare straight ahead as he carries me and the shadow of his dimple remains, although barely, even long after he’s finished laughing at me.

  Holden isn’t nearly as large as Coen, Luca, or Booker, but he does have a strength in his shoulders, a wideness that isn’t completely size but how he carries himself. Even with that, his form feels like a shadow. The way he moves, even with me in his arms, is fluid, graceful. I’m no bumbling idiot–not most of the time, but the lack of effort on his part is enough to raise a little bit of jealousy.

  “You gonna look at me all day, princess?”

  I blush. “Maybe I am, gotta problem, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Loves Dangerous Heights?”

  “I don’t love them,” he replies. “I’m just not as afraid of them as you obviously are.”

  “It’s a reasonable fear,” I snap. “I could’ve fallen to my death.”

  “But, you didn’t.” He jostles me as he moves to put me down. “And now that you’ve accomplished something that completely terrified you, how do you feel?”

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  “Admit it, you’re proud of yourself. There’s nothing wrong with feeling that way.”

  “I didn’t say there was.” I flip a strand of hair over my shoulder and begin to walk.

  The path was wide in some areas and narrow in others. It twisted and curved, a foothold among a place of dilapidated bushes and tired looking wane trees. The environment could have either been due to the habitat or oncoming season, a part of me agreed that it was a combination of the two.

  After a while, the quiet begins to slide like knives along the edges of my nerves. I peek at him out of the corner of my eyes. I never noticed before, but the underside of his hair is buzzed short, just an inch or so all the way around. It was faded and his hair was so dark, I hadn’t seen it before, but it was there, a stripe of hair so short I could see through to the skin. The mass of dark locks on the top of his head hid it well.

  “So, you were raised by the holy women.”

  I blink at the quiet statement before looking forward. “Yep.”

  “What was that like?”

  I shrug. “Normal, I suppose.” His eyes trace me warily as he tilts his head. “What?”

  “Normal is relative, not universal.” He fiddles with the buckle keeping his cloak around his shoulders. “I don’t know what your normal is.”

  “Uh.” I watch his hands trail down to the buckles lining one side of his chest on the borrowed tabard. “Well, I guess it was just... I don’t know, what do you want to know?”

  “What was it like growing up with a bunch of old ladies?” I laugh. It’s one thing to call the women who raised Coen and me holy, it’s something else to hear someone call them something as mundane as old ladies.

  “Not all of them were old,” I finally say, calming down my outburst to just a few stray giggles here and there. “Some of them were quite young. The younger ones are the ones who actually took care of us when we were little. It was only when we were of learning age that the ‘old ladies’ really became regular faces in our lives.”

  “Were they nice to you?” There’s a hint of something in his tone and when I turn to face him, he looks away. I know he’s hiding something, but I suspect it’s painful and not easy for him to talk about so I let it go.

  “Some were, but not all of them. The Order has its good eggs as well as it’s bad ones. There was this one lady—Lady Eliza— who hated kids. She substituted for my regular teacher one day and if someone so much as made a peep she made us kneel on our pencils.” I catch his flinch and lighten my tone as I continue. “But there were other ladies like Lady Patience, she would sneak us candy even when we were in time out.” I grin at him. “She really was a sucker for a sweet face.”

  “I bet yours was the sweetest,” Holden grins back. I smile in agreement as his face changes and his grin falls away for a more serious expression. “I’m surprised they had permission to educate you. King Matric is pretty strict on education within his walls, especially for girls.”

  “Have you ever met a holy woman?” I ask.

  “I’ve seen them, but no, I’ve never talked to one before.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know,” I state simply, “that they are impossible to say no to. Even if you do work up the nerve to say no, they’ll just do what they want or somehow you find yourself doing what they want you to anyway. A lot of people think that they’re super conscious of what they wear and how they act, but they’re actually like everyone else. It’s considered an honor to give up one’s worldly possessions in favor of attending to those who need help and living a life of charity. A lot of them left when they fell in love or wanted to travel. Matric couldn’t say no to them either. But, not because he didn’t want to. I guess it’s just seen as publically wrong to deny people within the Order since they're known for being incredibly selfless.”

  He hums. “I’m glad you got to attend classes, then.”

  “Just because I attended doesn’t mean I was any good,” I remind him.

  “Oh, I know that.” His chuckle is like silk under my skin, leaving remains of the soft feeling behind. “History is not your forte.”

  “I definitely liked other subjects. Lunch was my favorite subject. What was yours?”
<
br />   “Recess.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I like to move.” I laugh again before spinning on my heels. I walk backwards as I watch him.

  “So, what about your childhood? What was it like with a dad as a tradesman? I bet you got to go to lots of places like Ragnarok.”

  Holden’s face darkens and he stares straight ahead, shoulder’s stiffening. All light-hearted teasing quickly slides away from the present and I’m left with a very grim-looking young man who resembles nothing of the easygoing friend who helped me escape not only Matric’s kingdom, but Ragnarok and Chelsa as well.

  “Hey.” I stop him with a hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to bring back any bad memories. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to.” I nod.

  “Okay.” I don’t mention it again.

  The wind picks up and the temperature drops. What little sunlight we had recedes behind a collection of darker clouds. We move faster, hurrying along the path, our boots crunching the rocks and dirt under our feet.

  “There!” Holden calls, pointing to the narrow mouth of a cave on a hill ahead of us. I nod and we head towards it. He leaves me at the opening to check out the inside and I start to gather twigs and fatter logs before rain or snow begins to fall and the wet wood becomes useless.

  “It’s empty,” he says when he comes back to help me carry the wood in. “It’s a dead end in the back. Nothing there but a few bugs and animal droppings.”

  “Lovely.” I grimace.

  “Hey, it’s safe.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s not like we’re living here. We’re just staying the night.” He nods and proceeds to build a fire. The light from the flames illuminates the dry walls and there’s a rush of wind as the skies open up outside and a curtain of rain falls over the mouth of our cave. I go to the opening and reach a hand out. The water is freezing and the air from my mouth drifts like smoke in front of my face. But, it’s not snow. Not yet.

  “Come back to the fire. We should get some rest.” I follow Holden’s commands and quickly lay my own cloak out on the ground, using my bag as a pillow.

  “So,” I begin, pulling at a loose string on my bag. Holden pauses as he’s finishing spreading his cloak on the ground. “We’re spending the night together, but I still don’t know your full name.”

  He shoots me a grin. “It’s Holden Jeremiah Pandareos.” He sits and leans back against his bag.

  “Your turn.”

  “My last name’s Newblood.”

  “Uh huh.” He reaches behind him and I laugh when he pulls straw from a pocket in his bag and begins to twist it. “What’s your full name? I want details.”

  I laugh. “Where did you find the time to get straw?” He looks at me as he continues to twist it before he begins to braid the pieces together. I sigh. “That is my full name. Nerys Newblood. I don’t have a middle name.”

  “You don’t?” His hands still for a moment. I shake my head. “Well then, I get to ask another question.”

  “Are we playing a game?” I feels like it and I have to admit, at least to myself, it’s nice to be playful. Recent circumstances have taken all of the fun out of what should be the best years of my life. I’m young enough to enjoy life, so why do I have so many problems?

  “Yes, and it’s my turn to ask a question,” Holden says. “Now let’s see…” he hums quietly as his hands work. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Cake.” Holden stops twisting his straw to slap the ground with one hand as his face lights up in amusement.

  “You didn’t even hesitate!” He gasps, trying to catch his breath through his laughter.

  “Who hesitates on cake? You either love it or you’re a monster.” Holden swipes a finger under each of his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his amused tears before steadily returning to the task in his hand.

  “Okay, I concede your point. Your turn.” I watch his hands twist and turn the straw, flatten some sections, separate others.

  “Where did you learn to weave?”

  “An old woman taught me,” he says. “She used to weave baskets and hats and sell them on market day. She’d use whatever she could get her hands on: straw, string, even grass if she had to. She was wonderful.” I can tell by the way his voice softens when he speaks of her that this woman is someone he admires. His hands slow in their movements. His eyes glitter when he smiles as he thinks about her.

  “She sounds wonderful,” I say. “Were you related?”

  He stiffens, his hands freezing over his twisted mass of straw. “She was my family,” he says slowly. “But she was not my blood.”

  “I understand.” I want him to know that I get it. Blood isn’t always a real family. If that were true neither Coen nor I would have been left on the doorstep of the Order. “I don’t have any blood or family, I mean. I don’t have any blood family. Coen is as close to family as I’ve ever gotten. The holy women were more teachers and caretakers.”

  He nods once before focusing completely on his weaving. We fall quiet for another long while and I’m beginning to hate the silences between us. Whenever he feels as though I’ve stepped to close to some open wound left festering inside of him, whether I do so by blundering or by accident, he snaps closed like an angry set of jaws threatening to tear me in two if I’m left between his teeth.

  Instead of focusing on the near suffocating tension of our silence, I turn to our surroundings. The walls of the cave are solid rock, dark gray and cut unevenly across. Irregular, notched, and indented markings lines the sides of our sanctuary. Rain continues to pour outside, overshadowing the quiet sounds made by Holden’s skillful hands. The floor of the cave is a dry layer of dirt in some places and cold, wet, rock in others. It’s so exceedingly different from home. Everything I’ve experienced since leaving has been. Booker and Luca’s lavish apartment in the dormitory was the epitome of wealth and class.

  Halcy’s family home in Chelsa was the inspiration of what I’ve always wanted for Coen and I minus the whole enslaved to her father bit… not that Coen and I would really have to worry about that. It wasn’t fancy or out of reach. Simple. Attainable.

  The cave reminds me of stories long past of once when the human race first emerged. Of when dragons were plentiful nomadic creatures. When I was a child, I had dreamed of following a gypsy caravan and joining with their eclectic band of cultures and creatures. Gypsies were said to be enchanting to all and accepting to any who passed the test of their loyalty. I look at Holden, firm hands kneading the straw, curving it into a new shape, and I know I’ll have to pass a similar test to understand him.

  He’s already earned my loyalty. He could have not left Matric’s Kingdom, he could have not shared Booker as his friend. He could be safely living with Booker and Luca in Ragnarok without worrying about me or Coen or even Titus. He hasn’t done any of that. In fact, it’s hard to think of him as a selfish person since he’s been so kind and funny and warm towards me, though a part of me gets the feeling that some of that funny and warmth is a façade he puts on to cover up old hurts.

  Staring at the markings across the cave wall is harder and harder to do as what little light peeping in from outside quickly fades and turns dark. The shadows the flames from our fire cast over them make it look like monsters are dragging their clawed talons across the rock. I shiver and move closer, edging closer to Holden as I do.

  “What’s wrong?” He immediately looks up and casts his gaze around. “Did you hear something?”

  “No,” I say quickly. I stare harder at the markings, daring them to move. “Did you?”

  “No.” His brown eyes travel over to me, hands putting his twisted straw masterpiece aside. “You okay?”

  “This place just creeps me out.”

  “You want to see what I’m working on?” The offer is so sudden that I finally manage to drag my eyes away from the shadow monsters wreaking havoc on my sense of security. He offers me a piece of straw and when he lets go, I realize I’m holdi
ng the stem of an intricately woven rose. The bloom has curved leaves that fan outward. I gasp, bringing it for closer inspection.

  There’s a small circle in the middle with the rest of the petals folded across one another in a pattern that presents a striking resemblance to the beautiful flower. I touch the edges which are harder than an actual rose would be, but he’s molded them so perfectly, that the straw is soft as though by stretching his fingers over it repeatedly, the straw has relaxed enough to feel like actual petals of a flower. It’s a truly beautiful illusion.

  “You’re so talented,” I whisper as I continue to finger the straw flower. Little stray pieces along the stem pop out from beneath the head of the bloom, giving the work an even more realistic feel.

  “It’s just a flower,” he says quietly. I smile at him when I glance back up. The redness creeping across his cheeks is endearing.

  “A flower by any other name smells just as sweet,” I reply.

  “Where’d you hear that from?” The blush is still there, but curiosity lights his features.

  I shrug. “A book I read once.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I take the flower and fall asleep with it next to my chest and when I wake the next morning, there’s a bouquet of them by my head and Holden is gone. I smile as I pick up each individual flower and brush my fingers across their softened petals before gently placing them in my bag. The fire is nothing but dead cold embers and I quickly dust off as much of the dirt from my cloak as possible. There’s no more rain as I reach the mouth of our cave and today is the day we’ll meet up with the others again. I know it hasn’t been long and I’ve enjoyed my time alone with Holden, getting to know more about him, but I miss the group. I miss the guys.