The Fellowship: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (The Harbinger Book 2)

by Candace Wondrak

  He was her enemy. Her arch-rival, the one person-slash-Dracon who Faith hated with all her being…among a few other weird emotions that she wanted to blame on the perpetual horniness that grew within her in the Second. She would do what she had to, and that did not involve working with him to defeat some crazy Fae lady.

  When the guys did nothing but continue to stare at her, Faith said, “I’m fine. Let’s go.” She just wanted to get a move on already. The weird, knowing part of her (meaning a memory from a different Harbinger) told her that they’d reach Springstone today. Or they would, if they made good time during the journey.

  Had they made good time? Probably not. She wasn’t the best hiker around, but she couldn’t be completely sure. The memories of the previous Harbingers were so scattered and incomplete that they were only a few notches above useless.

  No one argued with her. They wanted the non-stop walking to be over with, too. Especially Jag and Cam, probably, since they’d been traversing across multiple kingdoms lately. That had to get old. Faith hated it now, and she couldn’t even imagine where else they’d have to go. If, by some chance, they did go to the Cave of Memories, the far reaches of Alyna sounded like way too much walking.

  Why didn’t this world have domesticated animals like horses? Or freaking cars?

  They set out. What little they had was already packed up while Faith unwillingly slept in. For the next few hours, she kept her whining to a minimum because she was too busy thinking about her strange dream. Until coming to the Second, dreams were an escape from reality. They hardly ever made sense, but usually when she woke, if she could remember them, she had a laugh as she told Cara about them. These dreams were not laugh-worthy. More like cringe-worthy.

  And the memories. All that death, the blood so thick in the air she could practically taste it. Faith wasn’t totally naive. In war, there was death. But to see it first-hand? To bear witness to such destruction? The I.D. prided themselves on capturing perps alive ninety-eight percent of the time. Death was something she hadn’t dealt with much on Earth. She’d never been to a funeral or a wake. Her family was small, the men and their extended families completely M.I.A., and as for her grandma’s side, well, Christine always said Faith and her mother were better off without any of them. No aunts or uncles; Penelope Blackwell was an only child.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  So, yes. The memories of death sat heavily on Faith’s shoulders. The smell of rotting corpses, the sight of larvae crawling out of eyes was something she’d never be able to shake. She thought back to the Harbinger, what he asked of the dead Dracyrus. Was it worth it?

  No. It couldn’t be worth it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Springstone was an ancient place. What started out as a cave where the Elves put magical and precious artifacts turned into a mausoleum of sorts, dug out and filled with carved stone and constantly-burning torches aided by magic. It sat under a small hill, and as the years went on, the hill became a burial ground for deceased members of the Court. Their graves were not public. No pilgrims were welcome there. Under constant guard, Springstone was well-protected. No one could infiltrate it.

  That’s what Faith’s fragmented memories said, but clearly, it wasn’t true.

  The doors to Springstone stood under an outcropping of stone, the burial hill rising ominously behind it. They were double Faith’s height, an old, cold brown metal, styled with Elven writing that Faith did not understand. A torch sat on each side, their flames a similar magic to the balls that followed around the guards and Court members after the failed assassination attempt. The light was enough to illuminate the surrounding area under the rock cropping, and more than enough to see that the right door hung ajar by a few inches.

  “It should not be open,” Faith whispered, feet slowing to a halt before the giant doorway. A coldness seeped out of Springstone, a gentle breeze that chilled her to the bone.

  “No,” Light agreed, glancing around. They were alone. “And there should be at least two guards stationed on the outside.” More should be inside, and even more should guard the burial site atop the hill, she somehow knew.

  As a foul stench wafted into her nose, Faith heard Cam say, “I smell death.”

  Great. So that wasn’t rotting milk she smelled.

  “I’m going to hazard a guess and say that something is very wrong here,” Jag commented, taking a step towards the open door. “Should we go in?” His panther-like tail flicked in anticipation, his ears perked to the inner sanctum of Springstone. His face wore an expression of wonder and trepidation.

  “No,” Finn’s voice dripped dry sarcasm, “we’re going to call it a day and go back. Maybe take a nap or two.” He shook his head. “Honestly, if this Fellowship is supposed to stop some old guy from rising and killing everyone, God help us.” His words earned him a glare from Faith, and the moment she met his stare, he refused to look away.

  Faith was the one to break eye contact first, swallowing her fear as she said, “Let’s get this over with, then.” She went for the open door, completely clueless as to what she’d find inside.

  This was worlds different than going on a hunt unsanctioned, without backup. Here, she had backup, but there were also a lot more things that could go wrong here. This was more than a smuggling operation of blackstone—a metal that was stronger than diamonds and thinner than a spider’s web. This was a life or death scenario, and really, Faith wasn’t certain if she was ready for that.

  She wasn’t a hero. She refused to be an evil son of a bitch like Dracyrus, but she wasn’t a hero. She was just Faith. An almost-Academy grad with two illegal Victi who wanted to prove her mettle and her worth. She broke the rules, sometimes, but not the big rules. Big rules such as: murder, torture, kidnapping, and all that.

  If she had to kill the Dread King, would she be able to—or would she hesitate in the one moment that truly counted, that mattered? No one could say that she would fail, because fortune-tellers weren’t real, but she had a decent notion that she would.

  “Here goes nothing,” she muttered as she reached a hand out for the open door, earning a moan from Finn. It wasn’t the first time she’d said that, and unless she died today, it wouldn’t be the last. She was a master at winging it. Light drew his bow and nocked an arrow, the first to follow her inside.

  “Why is it so cold?” Faith asked as she walked into Springstone, slowly but surely making headway inside the first great room.

  No larger than an Academy classroom, walls coated in stone that looked like it could be marble. Four torches lined each side of the room, illuminating the pathway forward, an archway that had crude carvings of Elven guards, reminiscent of the Egyptian hieroglyphs Faith was obsessed with when she was ten.

  “I don’t know,” Jag muttered.

  Light moved in front of her, saying, “Let me go in first.” He meant the next room, since they were already technically inside Springstone. He would’ve gotten some snark back, if the situation wasn’t so serious.

  Faith let Light do his thing and waited for his “All clear” before going through the arches and into the next room. She had to go up a few steps, and what she saw she wasn’t expecting. A giant room, triple the size of the first, full of shiny things. The light from the torches bounced off the golden statues and the plates that glowed with runes. Coins, gems, knickknacks of all kinds and sizes. This was a room full of magical hoarding. She wanted to know what each item was, what it could do, why the Elves saw fit to hide it away from civilization.

  Her fingers flexed. She wasn’t a thief, but man, she wanted to take some of this stuff. If this was a videogame, this would be where she hurried her character around and took everything without a second thought, maxing out her carrying capacity. Never knew when she might need some of these things…

  She went to touch a statue of a long-tailed bird, its eyes sparkling rubies, but something under her feet caused her to trip. Faith fell to the floor, glancing behind her. There was nothing by her feet
. She shouldn’t have tripped. She withdrew her feet, slowly standing. Something invisible was there, and she had to lift her feet in the air to avoid it. Talk about weird.

  Though this room was full of sparkling things, it felt cold still, wrong. She wrapped her arms around her chest as Cam whispered, “Something’s not right here. There’s magic at work. Everything is…fuzzy.”

  “As long as it’s not more aether,” Light said. “Or assassins.”

  “Or Humans named Finn,” Jag quipped, earning him a harsh glare from Finn and a chuckle from Faith.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Faith said, having one priority: the bones. The mystery of where the guards went, what invisible thing she tripped on, would have to wait. She brought them across the treasure room, to another alcove whose walls were more cavern-like and less marble-like. It’s as if they spent all their energy on the other rooms and gave up here. Just carved out a spot, threw up a wooden door and a lock and called it a day.

  There were a few problems with that, though.

  The wooden door looked so terribly out of place in Springstone. It was called Springstone for a reason, wasn’t it? Plus, it was so dreary and boring. Just a door, just like the ones on Earth. Nothing Second-y about it. Its handle was a knob with a big hole for a lock, straight out of a house from two centuries ago. Why would the Elves trust a door and a lock like this to protect the Dread King’s bones?

  Whatever reason it was didn’t matter too much now, because the lock was broken off and the door hung open.

  “Shit,” Faith muttered. Both Jag and Light rushed past her, while Cam and Finn held off. She took a step back, blinking, not understanding as the wooden door swung open completely to reveal a coffin of sorts, broken into bits. The bones were nowhere in sight. She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Someone had gotten here first. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

  Light emerged from the dark room, a look of concern on his otherwise flawless features. “Only a select few knew we were coming here. Surely, if the bones were missing when the Court sent word for the Ageless Blade, we would’ve heard about it.”

  “How long would it take an Elf to get here, assuming they weren’t slowed down?” Faith asked.

  “Not long at all. If they left the night before, even the morning of, they would’ve beaten us here easily.” Light was quick to add, “Not that I’m blaming you for slowing us down. But it does make me wonder if the Court is to blame for everything. The Ageless Blade, the assassin, this. Things do not sway in the Court’s favor.”

  “I smell a rat,” Jag said. “Let’s go back and demand answers from them—”

  Light shook his head. “No, we cannot confront them. Not without evidence, and we have none. It’s all speculation.”

  Leaning on the wall, Finn muttered, “Big word, for an Elf.”

  Light gave him a look that said bring it, while Finn didn’t bother to stifle his laughter. Faith stepped between them, saying, “Guys, this isn’t the time for a pissing contest. You can do that later. Right now, we need to figure out what we’re doing—” As she spoke, the ground shook. Bits of the ceiling fell onto her hair. She dusted them off, slowly realizing that it wasn’t the floor below her that shook; it was the space above.

  The burial site.

  “Let me guess,” Jag muttered crankily, pointing upward. “We’re going up that-a-way?”

  Faith would’ve guessed that no one wanted to go up top, but did they really have a choice? What if the answers to what happened here were up there? The world didn’t shake for no reason, the ceiling especially.

  “Further in we go,” Light commented, taking the lead as they left the empty closet-like space where Dracyrus’s bones were supposed to be. It was either meant as a disrespectful tomb for his bones, or a janitorial closet—and in the Second, Faith wasn’t so certain janitor was a job.

  And, like he said, further in they went.

  Springstone was a straightforward place. There was only one way to go if they weren’t retreating and leaving. One way up that involved a winding staircase that was so narrow and closed-in that it made Faith instantly nauseous. The walls shook once, twice, three times. So hard that she would’ve sworn that the stairwell was going to cave in on her. Which would be great. She’d probably suffocate in her own puke.

  After what must’ve been at least five flights’ worth of stairs, Faith and her group emerged from Springstone. The burial site atop the hill was just as spooky as she imagined it would be, though she’d hoped not to step foot on it. Even though there were no trees around, no bushes or grass, everything was dead. Nothing but stones arranged in piles. Over a dozen mounded graves were littered amongst the hilltop, leading to an altar of sorts that was over a hundred feet away.

  Memories of being tied down, of a hooded figure about to stab her flashed in Faith’s mind. All her breathing halted the very moment she saw a concealed person near the altar, and the bones that were arranged atop it.

  Dracyrus’s bones.

  They were almost too late, but not quite.

  The hilltop shook again, and as Faith readied her Victi, drawing a dagger to each hand, the mounds of dirt started moving. This was the beginning of any adventure-type survival game, clearly, if the Elven skeletons who rose from their graves meant anything.

  Twelve skeletons that looked a little funny, if their stretched-out bones had anything to say. Still, twelve skeletons in real life were also a lot scarier than twelve skeletons in a videogame.

  Faith glanced to the one near the altar. Whoever it was wore a long hooded cloak. She couldn’t see any discernible features. “Take care of the skeletons, I’m going for that one.” She took off running, dodging swipes from the old bones. She was within twenty feet from the altar and the hooded figure—close enough to see that the figure couldn’t be an Elf, for it was too small—when the world around her flashed a bright, misty purple.

  “Aether!” Light shouted. “Stay out of it!”

  As Light and the others readied to fight the living dead behind her, Faith watched the small hooded figure turn its head. Pointed chin, long wisps of yellow hair. Had to be a Fae, judging by its size. A woman, by the size of the hands that touched the altar where the Dread King’s bones sat, arranged so that all he would have to do was awaken inside them and…suddenly there would be flesh and blood and hair again? Faith wasn’t so sure about that part.

  Aether or not, she wasn’t going to let the Fae get away with this.

  Faith inhaled a giant breath before she leaped through the purple cloud.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

  Yesmyr was sure that this was not how it was supposed to be. In her visions, she did not see this. That was why, when she finally reached Springstone, she was shocked to discover its guards dead and its most precious treasure—the bones of the Dread King—already arranged on the altar on the top of the hill. Did the Elf have a hand in this? She gave Yesmyr the knowledge of the Humans at the gathering, but to go so far as to have her own kind murdered?

  She did what she could while she investigated the area; she put an illusion spell on the Springstone’s inner sanctum and its outer one.

  Regardless of how many times she closed her eyes and whispered for the threads of time to come to her, they did not come. It would remain a mystery to her. But, truly, she did not need to know who did this. Yesmyr only had to get here before the Harbinger did, and she succeeded in that.

  Now, all that was left was to pull Dracyrus from his slumber and set him on the path to war with the Harbinger before they met, before things got messy and could ruin her plans. And her plans were great. They involved usurping and tearing down kingdoms, building up new ones and finally, finally being someone’s first and only.

  Yesmyr stood before the bones. She studied them for a while, amazed at how pristine they were, despite their age, awed at how utterly large he was, even when he was only a skeleton. His skull, the giant, thick horns that grew from
the forehead region…she could understand the need for someone like him, and perhaps in another life, they could’ve ruled the world together. But this was not that life, and she would never want to rule beside Dracyrus. Dracyrus’s time was nearing an end, and the time of the Diren would rise. She would stand with her cold lover and watch over the new age.

  It would be her lover who would slay Dracyrus, provided Dracyrus played his part and rid the world of the Harbinger. She was a weak Human anyway. It would be all too easy for him to do it, as long as there was no temptation to do otherwise.

  Moving a hand above the bones, Yesmyr whispered with her eyes closed, “Come forth, Dracyrus. Rise and bring the fires of Furen Phyre to this land. Show the Harbinger what true strength is.” When nothing happened, she withdrew her hand as she opened her eyes. She let out a thoughtful sound. Was this why his bones were here? Whoever had gotten here first had tried to resurrect him as well and was met with utter and exasperating silence?

  Perhaps he needed blood to rise? A sacrifice of some kind? The Diren were all fans of sacrifice, though Yesmyr was not sure whether she agreed with it. Sacrifice for the pure sake of sacrifice was pointless. A waste of potential. Not to mention all that blood.

  She closed her eyes again, willing a vision to come to her, tugging and pulling at the air around her with her mind. Usually it was not this difficult to see things. She was a Seer, an Illusionist, a Transporter. She held the magic of her kind, of her ancestors. All that power—for what? To grasp at empty air at the time when it mattered most?

  A small thread appeared, and her mind plucked at it like a bird to an insect. It burst into her head, images of what was to come, omens of the future. Dracyrus, on his knees before her lover. The hill shook around her, but she was so enthralled in her vision that she scarcely noticed.

  Just as her lips turned upward, as she waited to see her lover end him…Yesmyr was alone no longer atop the hill. Her eyes flew open, and she lost the thread. Her vision faded instantly, and she grew irate. With a sleight of her hand, skeletons rose. Well, illusions of skeletons. The best she could do. Corporeal and everything. She did not move from the altar, refusing to let it go, attempting to find the thread of time again.