Siren's Fury

by Mary Weber

  A voice slips through the gray fog filling the air around us, unleashing with it a calm that slides through my skin, my head, my spine. “Nym,” it says behind me.

  I turn but no one’s there beyond the dead.

  I’m about to glance back at the guard, to demand he obey me, when I see the flutter of an eye and a flash of green peering through the mist.

  The rush of days, of hours, of seconds slows down . . .

  Until time is standing still and the only thing I know in this moment is that the man who is dead, who was absorbed and destroyed, is running a hand through his black hair and hauling his tall, broad-shouldered self up to gaze at me with those beautiful eyes. They are blinking as if newly awakened, and that unfair tweak of a smile is starting to surface above a confused one. The thought emerges that the rest of the world can go to hulls in the silence that falls.

  How long I stand there I’ve no idea. The moments are lost and forgotten as daft tears find my face and his gaze flickers and firms around mine. I go to move forward, then stop because he’s not real—he can’t be real—and this is a sick trick of Myles’s.

  “Once again, I distinctly recall ordering you to run from Draewulf.” Eogan rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Not rush into the center of a blasted war.”

  Oh litches . . . It’s really him.

  The sob I try to hold back escapes my lips anyway, and then I’m in his arms and in his eyes and breathing in his scent. His heart is beat beat beating into mine because there’s nothing between us but the two inches of space where my lips don’t quite meet his.

  “Gently,” he mumbles and it’s only then I’m aware he’s flinching at how tightly I’m holding him.

  “Sorry.” I ease my grip but his face is bending to brush his mouth over mine. Warm and firm. His fingers slide down my chin to my jaw, to the memorial scars on my arm. Tugging me closer. Obliterating every thought until I jerk back to search his face. To slip my hands against his chest and make sure he’s real and solid and made up of skin and bone and a scar on his neck.

  He winces. “Easy on the body. My block still doesn’t work against you.”

  I frown. Because while he should look sallow and weak, everything about his fierce gaze and the determined set of his chin is stronger than I’ve ever seen it. And his strength is filling me too. I search his eyes. “How are you alive?”

  A throat clears nearby. “Your Majesty, I’m pleased you’re—”

  “Go fix the bleeding ship, Kenan,” Eogan says without looking up.

  “Sir, as I was saying. I’m pleased you’re alive,” the large soldier says again. “But I think you need to see this.”

  Eogan’s brow narrows. “What is it?”

  “Your Majesty, we have Isobel onboard.”

  Eogan releases me, and I spin around to see Lady Isobel being held by two guards near where I hurled her against the dining area wall.

  I walk over and stop in front of her. And crush my fingers into my palms.

  She smiles and spits in my face before slipping a hand free long enough to jut it up against my heart. Eogan steps forward but I stop him.

  Because there’s nothing in her palm as it touches my heart.

  No sensation. No chill.

  She pushes harder before the guard yanks her arm down and jerks her backward. But she’s not paying any attention to him. She’s looking at me and frowning, her expression altering into panic.

  Her ability’s gone. Ripped out by the same vortex that slammed her into the wall.

  “What will your father do to Princess Rasha?”

  She sneers at me and clamps her mouth shut just as Eogan leans in.

  He studies her, but his answer is for me. “Her father took what he needed from King Mael. Now he’ll regroup and head for Cashlin to take Rasha’s mother. He’ll keep Rasha in case her mother is killed—at which time the power would fall to the princess and Draewulf will consume her. Thus, in order to preserve Princess Rasha and Cashlin, we have to reach the queen first.”

  “I thought Draewulf needed your block in order to take—” “He took it,” he says quietly. “Not all of it, but he absorbed enough of my blood that he’ll make it work.”

  I peer up at him. “He took part of you?” My voice sounds as appalled as I feel.

  He nods and continues staring at Lady Isobel. “Where did you plan to rendezvous?”

  She purses her lips and snorts. As if he’d actually think she’d answer.

  He shrugs, then nods to the guard to take her below. “Myles too,” he mutters, before dropping his rich tone to a growl. “You’ll let me know as soon as he wakes. I have some . . . business to take care of with him.”

  “Very good, Your Highness. Although I might mention Lord Myles ingested the power released by Nym. There is a chance he’ll be a danger to this whole ship.”

  “The power will take time to meld with his blood.” Eogan looks at me as if to get my thought on it.

  “A day at least.”

  The guard nods and begins to move off with Lady Isobel but pauses when Eogan adds, “But Kenan, feel free to bind his mouth as well as his body.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Eogan drops his gaze to survey me as the guard strides away. His frown returns to that half smile. “Now where were we?”

  “We need to go back for Rasha and the Terrenes. Draewulf’s been weakened but—”

  “So have you.” He eyes me.

  I glance down at my bloody, torn dress and my ripped skin beneath. He slides an arm around my waist and presses his hand to my side, and I swear he gifts a bit of his calm into me. So much so that my injured chest tingles and turns almost numb as his face turns slightly sallow.

  “Yes, but my ability is recharging. I can feel it. And I’ve—”

  “We can’t go back. There aren’t enough of us and these ships have taken about all they can handle.” He peers up at the soldiers working on the balloon overhead, then out to the other four airships flying nearby in formation.

  “But the people . . . The power I took on.” I hesitate before whispering, “Eogan, it helped Draewulf. It helped the wraiths. And combined with my storms, it . . .”

  I can’t even bring myself to confess it.

  How many innocent people I must have destroyed in that battle. Because my powers were too much, too big, and I didn’t listen to him or Rasha about the danger.

  Suddenly I can’t breathe. I can’t believe what I’ve done. What I started to become.

  What I’ve lent a hand to.

  “We have to go back. We have to try and undo—”

  “The Terrenes are stronger than you think they are.” His tone is sober. Just like his gaze that says he knows well enough. “They survived you and they will survive Draewulf for the time being—especially now that he’s taken their king’s blood, he’ll have little interest in them. The Tullan people will bore underground to mount a far better defense than either you or I can provide in the state we’re in.”

  “But I killed some of them.”

  “And you also saved more by damaging Draewulf and the wraiths. You can’t do anything further now unless you want to sacrifice the men on these airships. The only way we’re going to help anyone is by getting to Cashlin before Draewulf to aid Queen Laiha.”

  I look away. But after a moment I nod again.

  “Good. Because aside from the Cashlin queen, my priority is this ship, my men, and you.”

  He tilts his head and catches my eye. And tries to hide a smirk. “Because . . . no offense, have you seen you?” He runs his gaze down my soiled clothes and unkempt white hair and raises a perfect single brow.

  I snort and look away. “You’re such a bolcrane.”

  He chuckles weakly and lifts his hand to run his thumb along my jawline and down my neck to that little divot between my collarbones. “A bolcrane who’s standing beside the strongest woman he’s ever met and thus wouldn’t argue with her unless he truly believed we will save Rasha and the rest of the b
leeding world she’s so intent on rescuing.” His fingers move up to wind through my hair. “Just like she saved me.”

  I look into those brilliant green eyes that are full of confidence.

  Just like she saved me.

  His words hang in the air.

  “How did you separate from him?”

  “Draewulf let go.”

  “No, really.”

  He gives that unfair lopsided grin, and the familiarity of it brings a solemn smile to my face as his fingers slip down my arm again. Pulling me in. “It’s the truth. Apparently he’d assessed for every scenario but the thing that makes you Nym and not a monster.”

  “Which is . . .?”

  “He didn’t count on your compassion.”

  It’s my turn to raise a brow.

  “When my block was warped by Isobel all those years ago, she’d eliminated the ability for me to feel. Draewulf assumed that aspect was still in place, but the more you were moved toward compassion for him, he began to experience that through me. He didn’t know what to do with it, and he couldn’t help but pull away from the source of that emotion. Me. Every time you did the one thing you do so well, his grip lessened.”

  He slips his bangs out of his eyes and then rubs his neck again, then stumbles.

  “Eogan.” I reach for him but he just shakes his head.

  “I’m fine, just . . . weaker than I’d wish.” He sounds annoyed at himself. “When I discovered his reaction to you, I quit expending my energy trying to surface through him and kept my head down. He believed I was weakening, when in fact it was him.”

  Compassion? That’s what separated Draewulf from Eogan’s body?

  I swallow and look out over the mist-covered rock hills we’re dipping toward as the soldiers around us shout out orders and seal up the hole in the airship’s balloon. Until my gaze drifts behind us to the dust and soot spirals floating up from the battle we’re running from. And the people still there.

  Rasha’s and my conversation from a week ago on this same ship slips through my head again. “Strength doesn’t lie in power. It lies in your ability for compassion.”

  I peer back at Eogan. His handsome face crinkles with tenderness as I grapple with the dawning awareness that I could’ve just as easily saved him if I’d never taken on that power.

  My hand clenches into a fist, but when I glance down, the fingers are curled in again along the knuckles. I frown.

  It’s reverted to its gimpy state.

  I let out a dry chuckle—because isn’t that the truth of it all right there. That who we are is not our abilities. Not really. It’s more who we are in spite of them. Like Kel said, “Maybe it’s more the choice in how we use them. Not everything that seems weaker is.”

  If anything, perhaps who we are fuels them, in which case maybe it’s compassion that fuels mine. I glance around for the large guard, Kenan. Because apparently, compassion changes things after all. Simply because it changes people.

  Again I search out the mist and smoke behind us—covering the people we’re moving so swiftly away from in an effort to save—before glancing over at Eogan who is so alive and real and standing here as proof that every act, every touch, ripples out like the ocean tides, fueled by the single hunger even Draewulf was at one time desperate for . . .

  Love.

  Maybe that is the true power.

  But could it be powerful enough to change an entire world?

  I reach up and push my fingers into Eogan’s hair to pull his head closer again as he studies me. And my heart breaks in two for that world, but it also soars with hope for what goodness that same world can produce.

  It takes less than two seconds for his mouth to become present against mine.

  He presses in fiercer, deeper, as he nudges me against the dining wall. His lips searing, burning my bones, setting my soul to crash into his earthen heart like sea storms in winter. Promising that love can fix a multitude of worlds and souls and wounds.

  “Hello! Anyone there who can cut me down?”

  What? I blush and try to pull away, peering around in embarrassment for whoever may have seen us.

  “Helloooo!”

  Oh litches. Lord Wellimton.

  Eogan keeps his arm around my waist and raises a questioning brow at the bow of the ship.

  “Lord Wellimton,” I say, smirking into his shoulder.

  “Think we should cut him down?” Eogan murmurs so close to my ear it sends goose bumps down my skin.

  “Probably. Just be prepared—he wants to kill you.”

  He laughs and tips his head to one of the Bron guards. Then pulls me to the forward railing where we’re aiming straight over the mountains for Cashlin.

  I resist turning back again to survey the sky and the land we’re leaving.

  “We’ll save them,” Eogan whispers.

  I shudder. “What happens if Draewulf reaches her before us?”

  “He’ll take over her and the Luminescent ability.”

  “And then what? He’ll come for Faelen’s King Sedric?” Will his Dark Army?

  “Then he’ll come for me—to kill me in order to completely own my Medien power.”

  Wait. What? “Your power has a name?”

  “It does. And right now he has enough of me to use, but not enough to own Bron and rule.”

  I narrow my brow. “But he couldn’t kill you. He tried and it didn’t work.”

  “He’ll be stronger next time. If we fail, he’ll not only have Terrene blood but Luminescent as well.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean he’s going to try to absorb you again?” The thought makes my stomach curl. The image of King Mael’s skin being torn through . . .

  Eogan nods.

  I know it’s selfish of me. Probably wrong to even think it, but I can’t help it. “Why didn’t he just take Odion when he had the chance?”

  “Because as with Queen Laiha, I was the eldest Uathúil of my people, and thus the rightful heir. The blood is bound to our position just as our bodies are bound to our land. The higher the lineage, the more powerful the ability.”

  My hand flutters to find his. “I won’t let him,” I whisper. “We’ll hide you.”

  His smile is soft as he shakes his head. “I’ve hidden for the past four years. The only way to defeat him now is to fight.”

  “And if he kills you next time?”

  He falls silent. Enough so that I look up at him. He nods. “He’ll come to Faelen,” he says quietly. “But not for King Sedric.”

  I wait.

  “The right to rule was given to five Uathúils—five monarchs. And the line of Faelen’s royal blood was always the strongest.”

  I continue to wait.

  “Sedric’s ancestors weren’t Uathúils, nor were they the original kings. The Elementals were. But even then . . .” He pauses and softens his gaze, reaching his words deep into my soul. “Even Elementals weren’t powerful enough to sustain the abilities contained in all five original Uathúil rulers. That’s why Draewulf needed you to absorb the vortex—so it’ll hold the powers and blood of all five without aging the host.”

  He’s not making a lick of sense. “So why didn’t Draewulf just absorb the ability himself then?”

  He studies me. “Because the woman who gave it to you was his wife.”

  I stare.

  Until it’s clear he’s not jesting.

  “Draewulf’s wife was that witch?”

  He nods.

  Is he jesting? “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I confess to not being the most clear-minded with Draewulf in my head.”

  “But she offered them to me. She gave me them.” My gut heaves in disgust. “Why didn’t Draewulf just get them from her himself then? And how could she even have those abilities if she is Isobel’s Mortisfaire mum?”

  “Just as Draewulf enhanced himself, the witch found ways to enhance her ability too. The Mortisfaire are known for dabbling in magic. However, she stopped before it went as far as Drae
wulf’s, which is ultimately what destroyed their union. Those powers all lead to something, and while consuming them will eventually turn the host like Draewulf, not all of them are the same. The ability the witch offered you is one she kept from him and he couldn’t create on his own. Instead, she gave it to you.”

  “But why? How does that help anything?”

  “Because an Elemental will be his downfall, and you are Elemental. As were your ancestors.”

  I shake my head. “My ancestors weren’t Elementals and neither were my parents. I was an anomaly.”

  “An anomaly in that you were born female, yes. But not an anomaly in your genetic lineage.” His voice drops. “A lineage that belonged to the original rulers of Faelen.” He watches me as if willing me to grasp what he’s getting at.

  The airship shudders and the sensation is answered by a matching shiver beneath my skin. In my veins. I blink and frown at him. And swallow as the witch’s voice rattles in my chest. “And whatever you do, don’t let him take the final one.”

  When I look down, my left hand is twisting even tighter into the crippled stump owner number fourteen made it. And as it squeezes, a tiny black line emerges through the vein beneath its skin. For a fleeting second the feeling of dark hunger edges my lungs.

  Like the distinct imitation of a spider testing my sinew before beginning to reweave her web.

  Eogan’s voice finally emerges again through the wind and sea salt and snowcapped air. “When he comes to Faelen, it’ll be for you. Because you’re last in line, Nym.”

  MY POCKETFUL OF THANK-YOUS

  IF I’M HONEST WITH YOU ABOUT THIS TRILOGY, I’D tell you that writing book one was like this scary-wild celebration of friends, and fellowship, and love . . . whereas book two has been more a scraping of the soul. Ultimately a good thing, yes, but also rather terrifying. Ha! In fact, I may have spent much of this story feeling like I was wandering in the dark, suspecting the creation of book one was a fluke because good grief what in hulls was I thinking trying to write another?

  Yet in that dark there were people slipping their hands out to hold mine, reminding me that this is a journey and some of the best parts come from the hardest parts (so quit whining and get back to work, and also, have some Doctor Who episodes). So here’s to you, my dear fellowship of hand-holders. For being the people I want to be like when I grow up.