Bloodflower

by K. J. Harrowick

  Jon first.

  The horses were restless now. If she crept to the deck with the horses, Frank wouldn’t be able to isolate her heat signature, and he wouldn’t shoot. Not until he was certain the target wasn’t her.

  With the gun pointed at the door, Jàden went to each stall and untied the harness ropes with one hand. The norshads were smart enough to untangle themselves from the restraint cloth, and within minutes, all eight stallions surrounded her. Agnar stayed close to her shoulder, but Jon’s black wanted his rider. He trotted to the outer corridor, his ears laid flat.

  Andrew squeezed in next to her, a small silver dagger gripped in each hand. “The fuck are you doing?”

  “Frank can’t find me next to the horses.” She couldn’t really explain to him how heat tracking worked, but with one hand against Dusty’s horse, she followed the herd toward the deck.

  “Smart girl,” Frank muttered. “Gonna be fun breaking you again.”

  Jon’s black stopped at the top of the ramp, his ears laid so flat they practically disappeared into his head. Something was definitely wrong. The other horses bunched up behind him, neighing for their riders.

  Crouching low, Jàden edged between two legs and put the sight to her eye. One of Naréa’s crew lay sprawled across their path, a hole in her head. Vacant eyes stared at Jàden, but beyond the body, several people in full Enforcer battle gear lined the deck, their black armor glistening in the early morning storm light.

  At least, they stood like Enforcers, but the emblems on their shoulders were wrong. Some had a silver flame wrapped in the infinite circle just like Bradshaw’s lab. But one had a strange green orb that didn’t quite close, and something about that symbol sent a shudder to the deepest part of her psyche, though she couldn’t say why.

  Jon and the others were on their knees, electrical taser wires pinning their arms to their bodies. One press of a button and they’d either be shocked into submission or die by electrocution.

  “Who the fuck are these assholes?” Andrew whispered in her ear.

  “Dead, if they dare hurt Jon.” She bit her lip against another sob, wracking her brain for any idea to short out the wires.

  “Yes, sir,” shouted an Enforcer, who raised his rifle, pointing it at Malcolm’s head. “They’re at midship, and the place is empty.”

  Andrew nudged her shoulder. “What’d he say?”

  “They’re behind us.” Before she could say more, Andrew retreated to the back of the herd, no doubt intent on killing Frank’s men. If she tried to warn him, it would give her away.

  “I see you, darlin’.” Except every soldier with a rifle in their hands had the wrong build. Short, tall, bald, blond.

  Where was Frank?

  Gray light streaked across the dawn skies as a loud rhuum broke the morning silence. Jàden unbunched her shoulders. She’d heard that sound before as a child and again during her later years when she’d entered the Bioengineering Guild.

  The atmosphere processor.

  She found Jon in the lineup, fury in his eyes as he stared down the barrel of a rifle.

  There was nothing left to do—it was her or Jon.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed the barrel of the handgun against her temple. “All right, Frank. You win.”

  Jàden pushed past Jon’s black and stepped onto the deck, her hand shaking so hard she could barely hold her weapon.

  “Let them go, or I squeeze the trigger,” she said.

  “Nice to see you again, darlin’.” Frank’s voice echoed from a small device in the middle of the deck.

  That bastard. He wasn’t even here.

  She met Jon’s gaze, silently screaming at him that she had no idea what she was doing. Edging toward the rail, she peeked over the side to a sleek black submersible clamped to the hull.

  “What are the orders, sir?” one soldier asked into a headset.

  The device on the deck illuminated to a floating holoscreen, Frank in the center with crutches under his arms. “You may think you found yourself some muscle, darlin’, but I know where my son is. If you ever want to see him alive again, drop the gun.”

  Pain gripped her chest so tight she could barely breathe.

  “Should we shoot, sir?” an Enforcer asked.

  “You fucking do, and I’ll pull the trigger!” Jàden screamed. “Put your weapons down!”

  “Oh, darlin’, I forgot how fun you are when you’re angry.” Frank chuckled, limping toward the console with a cast on his leg.

  That was why he wasn’t there—Theryn and Dusty must have broken his leg. Jàden searched for their faces, both bowmen on their knees with cold anger etched into their features.

  “Fourteen new lives that boy lived without you. Shall we go for fifteen?” Frank hovered his palm over the console. “Got a ship targeting him now.”

  “Don’t hurt him!” Jàden clenched the gun tighter, sliding the barrel down until it touched her ear.

  Someone was going to die today if she couldn’t find a way out. The Flame’s power burned in her veins at the temptation to blow Frank’s soldiers off the deck. But one click of a button, one pull of the trigger, and Jon along with the others would be just as dead.

  She’d have to sacrifice them for Kale or sacrifice Kale for them.

  “Jon,” she whispered as several swallows landed on the ship’s rail behind Bradshaw’s Enforcers. Coastal birds who made their homes out of hard-packed mud.

  A steel column from the atmosphere processor slid into the corner of her eye, the northern half of it covered with earth and grass. The birds must have perched somewhere on that rocky spire, but Jàden couldn’t ignore the glowing firemarks embedded along its southern side, the steel lines of technology showing that power still flowed through its machinery.

  She loved Kale, a certainty gripping her thoughts as Jon stood up, his men mirroring the action as if they refused to die on their knees.

  But she needed Jon, and she wasn’t about to let Frank hurt him.

  Another small flock of birds landed on a soldier, creating a trail along his arm to the glowing firemark in his rifle.

  There was something creepy about how calm the birds were. The one near the firemark scraped its claw across the glass orb, dousing its glow and the gun’s power.

  Jon must have caught it too as he pressed his chest against the barrel. “You gonna kill me now?”

  Hundreds more birds descended to the deck like something out of a nightmare. Jàden edged back against the rail as Naréa and her crew stood too.

  Something was happening she didn’t understand, but it made every inch of her skin crawl.

  More birds circled the sky like a dark swarm as Jàden gripped the rail, unease twisting her gut.

  Everyone on deck had gone quiet except for Frank. “Last chance, darlin’.”

  She couldn’t take his taunting anymore. Jàden pointed the gun at the device and fired, crushed metal sparking as it skittered across the deck into the sea. Now she wouldn’t have to hear his voice or how he was going to kill the man she loved—again. I’m sorry, baby.

  The deck erupted in chaos, Jon and his men ducking the rifle barrels and charging Bradshaw’s Enforcers.

  Jàden froze when a dozen birds melted together into a man with bright blue paint on his cheek.

  The bird man grabbed an Enforcer by the back of the head and broke her neck over his shoulder. Her gun fired an arc into the sky as her eyes glazed over.

  Jon and the others dropped to the deck, electricity through the taser wires jolting their bodies.

  The man with the button reached for the dial to turn up the juice, and Jàden fired on the device, shattering metal bits into his palm.

  “Jon!” She raced across the deck and slid next to him, trying to untangle the wires pinning his arms. “I’m so sorry—”

  A shot fired between them, barely missing her head and scraping across Jon’s. Someone threw a spear from the other direction, slamming int
o the Enforcer’s neck where the seams were weakest.

  A dozen more people surrounded them, small blue feathers woven into their hair. Gripping long spears painted with bright blue swirls, they jabbed their points at Jàden. “You drop or we kill.”

  Jàden released the gun as irritation burned in her chest. “Please, just let them go.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The Dark Isle

  Éli put the spyglass to his eye, tracing the outline of the smaller corsair ship shrouded in a thin veil of fog. The brand on his shoulder pulsed, the high council’s magic pushing the fleet further away from the north and toward the most dreaded land on Sandaris.

  The Dark Isle.

  A realm of shifters, death dealers and deep magic. No one ever returned from the Dark Isle.

  The high council reinforced the belief in Ìdolön that all shifters and forms of magic were inhuman and must be eradicated. Only in the prisons did Éli learn a much darker truth.

  Magic wielders were tortured so their power could be siphoned away by the old men.

  It was the main reason he held onto his own magic so tightly, so he wouldn’t end up dead behind bars. And why he kept a tight leash on Evardo. If Kóranté Alken knew the breadth of the dreamwalker’s power, he’d have Evardo branded and in chains. So far, his servant had escaped the iron fires, but his son had not been so lucky.

  Éli lowered the spyglass.

  Granger leaned on the rail beside him. “Forty-seven men plus the boy and the servant.”

  “And how many still loyal to the old man?” He tightened his grip on the spyglass as the skies darkened toward night.

  “Thirteen.” Granger kept his voice low and crossed his arms, his one good eye watching the activities on deck. Two young soldiers sparred near the prow while others walked their horses near the stern. “Night could give us the advantage.”

  It still wasn’t enough. The thirteen Rakir still loyal to the high council were older soldiers, well-seasoned and still in their prime, including General Tyken, who had tossed the hevkor overboard nearly a week ago and taken command of the ship.

  If it wasn’t for the kóranté in the hold and the magic he wielded through their brands, Éli would have already tried to kill Tyken. Even then, one false move and he’d have the rest of the army to contend with. More than thirty ships followed the corsair carrying horses and soldiers, yet his gut told him something else was in play beyond the bloodflower key.

  Éli had never reached for the full breadth of his own power before, but after two seasons outside prison walls, he ached for the freedom his brother always promised. To feel the Flame’s smooth silk in his veins like a forbidden mistress and to finally be the master of his own life.

  “Stay ready. We’ll figure a way out of this mess.” Then he was going to head straight for Jon. To steal his woman while Granger ripped Theryn Blakewood’s eyes out of his skull.

  The corsair blended into the fog with the rest of the fleet, unfurling the last of its sails and breaking harder south.

  “Wait a minute. Something’s happening,” Éli said.

  Before he could lift the spyglass to his eye, a zankata soared across the ship’s bow, its gray under-feathers blending into the storm. The crow-like bird settled on a nearby crate and squawked at Éli.

  A high council messenger bird—probably for Tyken, but the bastard slept below deck with his own personal guards watching his back.

  Éli unrolled the small strip of parchment. Take your men west to Hezérin. Kóranté Dràven will meet you there. He has a surprise to bait Ayers.

  Crushing the parchment, Éli glanced at Granger. He wasn’t going anywhere near Dràven. The old bastard had more strength in his magic than the other five high councilmen combined. Besides, nothing would bait Jon Ayers into a trap more than a woman in distress. Especially one he cared for. “Fleet’s breaking off. It’s now or never.”

  A sinister grin curled the edge of Granger’s lip. “Let me kill Tyken.”

  “Do it.” Éli stormed across the deck toward his son and servant.

  Connor was teaching Evardo how to tie a sail closed, showing them how to grip the rope and which knot to use.

  Éli clapped Evardo on the scrawny shoulder, and they hunched under his grip. “Take the boy below and tend to my horse. I don’t want to see your faces until dawn.”

  “Y-Yes, sir.” Evardo seemed to have the mind of a child when they replied to any of Éli’s orders, and yet in his head, they held a strong, sensible voice as if more certain of their abilities than their hands. The servant grabbed Connor’s hand, and both hastened downstairs, either to avoid his anger or finally have a reason to hide out he couldn’t be certain.

  Neither of them belonged among the ranks of a militant army, but they kept their heads down and did exactly what they were told.

  “You, Hareth. Get up on that sail. The men say the fleet turned south,” Tyken shouted from across the deck, his hair amess as if he’d just awoken.

  “Follow your own orders.” Éli shoved the high council note in his pocket and gestured a silent command to his team: Kill them.

  Like Granger, his team had always been loyal, and they were desperate to cut the north away from their lives. He stomped down the stairs toward the stern cabins. Granger would either be dead within the hour or Tyken would, but he had to take this chance or his revenge might be lost before he ever set foot on land again.

  Alken’s dark power beckoned as if the old man had sensed the message. “Come, commander.”

  His stomach knotted at the raspy voice, so like a snake slithering among soggy reeds. He shuddered at the disgust of it and shoved open the door.

  The hevkor’s cabin held a single table, a firemark lantern glowing from the center and cots with heavy, soft blankets. Two women huddled together in the corner, half naked and clinging to each other for warmth. The brands on their hips marked them as sex slaves to the high council.

  Granger had forgotten to tell him that small detail, no doubt intent on using both women to warm his own bed.

  Kóranté Alken stood next to the table, his long hair silvery white against pale, wrinkled faces. The old man’s eyes went straight to his chest, leering like a hungry wolf.

  “You have something for me,” Alken whispered, reaching out his hand. White hairs sprouted from his graying knuckles, the wrinkles deeper than those trailing from his nose to his mouth.

  Éli had to strike now before he missed his chance. He unsheathed his dagger and closed the distance between them, slicing across Alken’s throat. His arm froze in midair as the high councilman’s eyes grew dark, black smoke swirling in their blue depths.

  “Betrayer,” Alken whispered.

  Éli tried to pull his arm back, but the air pressed against him like a heavy blanket. Black power slammed him into the wall, pain shooting up his spine.

  The air grew thicker. Stifling.

  Éli roared as the old man’s magic pressed him to his knees, twisting his arm as the sharp end of his blade inched closer to his throat. “I. Will. Not—”

  The young orphan in Éli slid into his mind, a child who feared every ounce of pain and beat of his lonely heart. Forcing the familiar terror into submission, his muscles tightened as he fought the old man’s power, his own magic sliding into his veins like silk. He’d never reached for his power before in their presence, but he was desperate to break the Tower’s will over him.

  Alken stumbled back then slammed his hand against the table as if a bull squaring off to charge. He sliced his hand across the air, the motion cutting a deep gouge into Éli’s back. “You are a soldier no more but mine to wield.”

  Too many years he’d endured this kind of pain. The cuts across his back, the shame of subservience when his magic whispered through his body. Éli suspected they’d always known what he was, but he’d never openly rebelled. He’d only hoped to one day secure a future of higher status within the ranks so he’d never be forced to serve under
Jon’s command.

  Alken made a ripping motion with his hand. The blade tore from Éli’s fingers and slammed into one woman’s chest. The other screamed.

  Silk slid into his veins as Alken sliced the air again, over and over until Éli’s power faltered, suppressed under the weight of the old man’s strength.

  He dropped to his hands and knees, sweat beading along his temple as his back screamed in agony.

  Twelve. Thirteen.

  Each one stung like the cut of a blade, but the old man’s magic forced the pain to burrow deep into his bones.

  This was Connor’s fate unless Éli could put a stop to it.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Dark Isle

  Something about Frank’s taunting voice grated on Jon’s every nerve, but as the anger threatened to burst out of him, he clenched his jaw and glared at the man with a spear pointed at Jàden’s throat, calculating how fast he could have the bastard on his back.

  Recognition burned in the leader’s eyes. “Humans go back. You do not belong here.”

  This guy was starting to piss him off too. Jon glanced around the deck to make sure his men were still alive. Blue-painted warriors with long spears pinned nearly everyone, including the crew. Only Naréa still walked free. With hands behind her back, she sized up the damage to her vessel and the women under her command.

  “Horses loose on my ship and three of my crew dead.” Naréa stopped in front of Jon, a murderous rage in the taut lines of her face. “You owe me three strong men, Captain.”

  “Not a chance, Naréa.” He’d throw the woman off her own ship before he’d give any of his men into her service. “Tell these fuckers to back off before I start breaking arms.”

  And their skulls. Except his sword was buried in some bastard’s chest, and his knives were in a midship wall.

  Naréa snorted. “Since your men don’t know how to keep their pants on, this is where you get off.”

  Jon tightened his jaw. “It’s the middle of the ocean—”

  “You leave, or you die.” Naréa stalked off, shouting something in a language he didn’t understand. The bird shifters disappeared into a large flock, circling high into the storm.