“And do not forget…”
But then the room went still. Next second, Sarah’s words sounded muddy. Charlotte shook her head, trying to dislodge her weird headache.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
Sarah looked down at her from the second story landing, looking concerned. “I said don’t forget…”
It happened again. Her voice came out muffled and distorted. Charlotte took a step forward but then the room turned ninety degrees. Goosebumps flared along her arms and in the next moment, she was freezing. She reached forward, trying to catch herself on anything as the room blurred, but could only fall to her knees, shaking all over with barely enough strength to press up on her hands. It was no use. Her stomach rolled and the back of her neck began to perspire. But this wasn’t the same pain from the other day. This was different. In the distance, she heard a horrible scream.
Charlotte turned and straightened with her back flush to the floor. Calming her breathing, she kept her eyes closed. A slow exhale through her nose. The burning at the side of her throat was only a dull ache now. A slow inhale through her mouth. She could hear her own pulse in her head.
Charlotte Ruzikova….
The sound startled her, but it wasn’t a sound the way sounds usually come from someone else there in the room with her. This was a foreign voice, but it startled her from within her own head. Maybe this infirmity was driving her insane.
Chaaaarloottttee….
Her heart jumped. She wanted to move. She wanted to bolt upright, but she was petrified. Paralyzed. There was a weight on her chest, pinning her to the floor. Her face, her feet—everything was numb and tingly. Nobody moved to help her. Nobody panicked. Nothing about the room moved at all, but rather, she felt that time had frozen.
The strange, mental voice whispered slower than before and it reminded her of the morning she’d held up with Valek in his room before they were found by Aiden’s army.
Child of light, it said. Darkness is coming for you.
Charlotte forced her eyes open. Now, her pulse beat in her face. To her alarm, standing near her head was a figure all in black.
There were no discernable features about his face. He was robed in a mist-like shadow. He did not move. He remained fixated. There was nothing for her to do but lay in terror. Perhaps this was some hallucination—a side effect.
Death will come. You will not outrun it. You will not outsmart it. Unless you join us. We can protect you. You will find peace in succumbing to the darkness. Find the book. There lies the answers you seek.
Charlotte wanted to move, to cry and scream that the being—whatever it was—was horribly mistaken. She would never succumb to anything. She was stronger than that. Her will had proven it. Stronger than Aiden. At times, stronger even than Valek. Death had come for her so many times.
But before she could summon enough force to move, before she could argue, the thing dissipated and the shadowed version of the room fell away to reality.
She blinked. Nothing had happened. She was still on her feet—still standing normally. Time hadn’t lapsed at all. Except, Valek, Sarah, and Jorge were all staring at her with gross concern.
“Charlotte?” Sarah asked. “Did you hear what I said?”
Old Town
Aiden Price’s back went rigid when the astronomical clock struck midnight in Old Town. It clanged twelve times. The sound echoed harsh in his new ears, warbling around off baroque fixtures, turrets, and towers, and bouncing around in his skull until it made him crazy. How did anybody get any sleep around here? He needed to take pause. Breathe. He held his head. He wasn’t used to such sensitive hearing and even the smallest cricket chirp launched lightning bolts through his temples.
Every gear of the clock’s makings was audible, even from this distance. He pictured the little mechanical men and women coming to life as they danced around the astral face. It was the oldest one still operating. Magic kept it running like new, of course, as is represented in all its symbolism. Magic hiding in plain sight right before the eyes of humankind, but they’d never realize it.
Aiden knew better.
He continued down the crowded street…on a mission. He had a throne to reclaim.
His steel-toed boots splashed in the puddles along the ancient roads of a modern world. He’d been stealthy enough to steal them from Dag’s chambers before escaping Cinder’s wretched, Norwegian fortress. He’d stolen those, some pants which drooped around his too-narrow hips, and an impressive leather vest. Snatching an ivy cap off the head of some young, drunk tourist, Aiden pulled the brim low over his eyes.
“Hey, mate!” the tourist called after him angrily. “What’s the fuckin’ idea?”
Aiden halted and turned, fastening his Elven eyes to the mortal’s unexceptionally brown ones. The man responded with only intimidated silence, though he squared his shoulders.
“Fine. Keep it. S’not even my favorite one.”
Aiden watched the man retreat before he continued without incident. Harsher gusts of wind swept up snow flurries and caused some mortals about Old Town Square to scramble to warmer places while others clung tighter to their coats as they pushed on. Aiden marched on unbothered and determined. His hair, unrulier than it had ever been, escaped the stolen flat cap and flopped into his eyes.
Cinder’s castle had been less of a palace and much more an unfeeling bastion—unnecessarily large and portentous with arrows, swords, and snarling animal skins lining the walls. Not Aiden’s style at all. He missed the opulence, substantial mantels surmounted by gilded mirrors, candelabras, scarlet rugs, and crystal chandeliers. The ache for home gripped his bones and tugged him forward.
The road from Norway to Czech was hellish without the Regime guard force at his aid. What should have taken hours instead took nights. Winter fell harsh, and even though he hadn’t gotten tired—not even once on his journey—he did feel the cold as he braved train stations, busses, the stares of curious people; though, if he kept his eyes down, his ears covered, and his mouth shut, there was nothing too obvious about him. Maybe he was a little bit taller than the average man, but that was about it.
The square was crowded with dozens of tourists. They all seemed to be getting their evenings started, crowding the good pubs, lingering around the kiosks or the entrances to underground discotheques. Neon light made entryways look like jewels against the stale gray concrete.
Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Glancing upward, Aiden could see dark clouds swarming over the spires of the Saint Vitus cathedral. One silver snowflake landed on the tip of his nose and then another on his cheek, melting just underneath his eye. He dashed it away at once with the back of his gloved hand. He didn’t cry anymore. He couldn’t recall the last time he did.
When he’d woken from his death, Aiden found himself in a white room, tucked in matching sheets emblazoned with the Regime’s scarlet emblem. His wounds had been treated, but his throat still felt ravaged from where Valek had torn into it. Even now, Aiden’s voice barely made a sound.
No nurses stood at his bedside. Not even his mother and father had been there. He’d opened his eyes and found himself completely alone. It was as if they already counted him as one of the dead—a telling display of what little faith they had. How could they doubt Aiden’s will to survive even for a second? How could they think he would simply falter? He’d show them the sort of warrior he really was.
Nothing would stand in his way now. The savage blood-feeder had actually done him a favor. Upon waking up, Aiden discovered a different Elf staring back at him in the mirror. It wasn’t only because his complexion looked paler, or that he could count his ribs now. His glare was stonier. He stood straighter. There was a fire coursing under his skin. His face and arms were now marked by couple of battle scars and he found it frightening how much they made him resemble his father.
And then, there were his new abilities… Heightened sight. Heightened hearing. Sharper agility. But one that was most fun, and also the most irritati
ng…was the mind reading. As a million voices, both mental and physical swirled through his head, he struggled for a way to turn it off, or at the very least, have it not be so loud. Mostly-quiet train cars were made unbearable, suddenly privy to the thoughts of every passenger around him. Passing through city crowds made his brain throb so hard he thought his ears might bleed.
But it was a gift. He would use all this newfound dark power to destroy the very darkness he hated. It would become part of his mission once he found power again.
Aiden had a plan. A prophecy needed to be fulfilled. Vladislov was dead, but Aiden was still heir to the throne—the only heir. Whoever remained of the Regime needed to be reminded of that. He’d overheard his “Aunt” Cinder and her maniacal plans. She was spoiled and reckless. He knew exactly what she’d try to do. But she was fool, very messy and very stupid.
There were others left. There must be. They should have successfully escaped. Bedrich, the bold. Kazimir, the quiet. There was no use to try and reach out to his mother and father now, not when he was unable to understand the magnitude of the effects the Darkness had on him, and not when they were consorting with Cinder and the other members of her dangerous cabinet.
“Aiden is…gone,” the nurse had said, throwing everybody into a panic.
What they didn’t know, was that Aiden cleverly listened nearby. They were right, he couldn’t get far. Instead, he eavesdropped on the whole conversation from behind one of Cinder’s mounted hunting trophies—an enormous grizzly with glass eyes and a horrible growl—before escaping the fortress while they were all distracted by their plan-making.
His father should have waited for him to awaken before making any decisions. His hasty actions showed his disloyalty. It seemed Aiden might have to preen his own family tree of its poisoned branches once he was able. After all, he was about to reclaim his position at the top, Cinder be damned.
The highest spire of the Regime palace, Gothic and jagged, grew from beyond the tops of the city’s other roofs then. His stomach lifted. At last.
Marching another block or so, picking up his pace, Aiden nearly stumbled over the front steps of the Regime Palace’s unassuming, outside walls.
He pressed his palms to the cold, wet stone, the corners of his eyes stinging. He choked over the emotion unfurling in his throat.
Aiden ascended the steps to the building’s bolted doors. The façade was humble, and made the palace look like nothing more than a bank or an embassy building to the unknowing.
Awed by the enormity of the heavy wooden gate, he recalled the night when Valek escaped with Charlotte through billowing flames. They’d disappeared into the night like smoke from a snuffed-out candle. The entry had since been repaired, the doors glaring back at him, imposing and great.
Aiden shuddered with the memory of the dying girl slung over the Vampire’s shoulders.
He swallowed down the flare of sadness at once. Charlotte no longer mattered. She meant nothing. She had no place in this war or in his heart. He didn’t care about anything except fulfilling his quest to rule.
Reaching into the leather satchel slung at his side, he pulled out his pocketknife and unfolded it. Gripping it in his right hand and holding up his left, he carved the familiar Regime rune into his flesh, grinding his teeth as the knife pierced his skin. It didn’t hurt as badly as it used to. The blade was ice cold as his blood, now closer to a shade of red than black, spilled out over his palm.
Once the symbol (Merlin’s sword—half an arrow pointing upward attached to a swirling line at the bottom) was complete, he carefully pressed it to the door.
Normally, what would happen next was simple—nothing flashy. The door should have swung inward without anybody visibly opening it. It was a way to access the palace in the event of an emergency. The symbol of Merlin’s sword was something of a free-for-all, a skeleton key. Anyone standing behind Aiden would have thought he’d simply pushed the door open. But this time, there was nothing.
Aiden pulled his palm away and looked down to check if he carved it right. It was the same symbol he always remembered. He pressed it to the wood again. Nothing.
Growling, he let both of his hands fall to his sides. He sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Save your rage for later. Don’t waste it out here. You’ll need it.
He blinked at the closed door for a few more seconds…
“Screw it.”
Lifting his hands, he shot a blast of fire from his palms, incinerating a hole in the wood. Someone gasped behind him. He turned to see a young woman in the center of the street staring horrified, both hands pressed to her mouth. Her purse had fallen with its contents strewn about her ankles.
“You saw nothing,” Aiden murmured with another blast from his palm he meant as a threat.
Eyes swimming with tears, she released a small squeal and dashed away, leaving her purse where it was.
“Idiot mortals.”
He pushed through the smoldering wood into the desolate great hall. It was swathed in dust and shadow. Only half of the grand chandelier still dangled where it once hung proud. The other half had collapsed to the center of the hall, cracking the marble floor. Shards of broken crystal crunched under his heavy steps. The place was utterly abandoned, pieces of armor and bent weapons scattered about the floor. Even the tapestries were torn in scraps off the walls—something once so glorious fallen to such shambles. Only ghosts lived there now.
Aiden snorted. Pathetic. How dare they let the palace crumble in such a way. Did they have no pride? Why was the place so dark? Where were the ladies in waiting? Where were the pages? Where was everyone?
His stomach sank. He didn’t know what he expected. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he’d find his grand sanctuary in ruin. He knew it. He just didn’t want to believe it.
He moved deeper into the room until he came to the broad, bell-shaped staircase, his breath forming silver clouds of mist in front of his face. He shivered all alone in the palace, dispirited as a sunken ship.
He made his way up to the second-story corridors, his movements echoing ominously off stone walls and hollow chambers. Something reeked nearby with the promise of death. How many days had these idiots been sitting on this mess without at least gathering a crew come and commence a thorough cleanup? Shameful. He snorted in disgust at the sight of a dented piece of armor he recognized from the water platoon. Kicking it, it skidded far across the stone floor before clanging against the opposite wall.
Something several feet away caught his attention then. A small shadow sifted around the debris. Coming from it, were distinctive sounds of claws on marble followed by a few tiny squeaks. Stepping closer and kneeling, Aiden found a rat feasting on the flesh of one of those very water Elves. The soldier must have lost his breastplate, because his entire chest cavity was exposed and now made a cozy nest for a family of rodents.
Stomach churning, Aiden lurched away from the nightmare of the decomposing face of another one of the officers he’d known so well. A warrior even in death, this man’s sallow hand still clutched the hilt of his spear, face frozen in an eternally fierce bellow.
Aiden fell back against the wall, and before he could subdue it, he got sick all over the floor. He wasn’t sure what he coughed up. He didn’t remember eating anything, but whatever it was came out green. He held the back of his forearm up to his nose to shield from the smell of decay and vomit while saluting the officers with his other hand.
Who was left?
The last thing he recalled was his mother’s terrible screams as Valek clung steadfast to his throat.
Immediately, he dashed back down the stairs and down the north corridor. What of his friends? His squadrons? Was everyone dead? He careened up the spiral staircase of the north wing and rounded the corner to Vladislov’s office, bracing himself by gripping to the ancient bricks.
The office was completely empty, untouched. All the Wizard’s documents were exactly as he’d left them. Nothing looked damaged or disrupted at all.
/> Various globes mapping other worlds continued to spin at unbothered paces on invisible axes. Many theological and historical volumes sat untouched on the now-dusty shelves. Spider webs clung to the corners near the arched, Gothic windows.
Aiden’s heart slithered up his esophagus. He bent in half, trying to keep from passing out. Though this room seemed at peace, the whole energy of the place tasted of desolation. That unassuming swarm of misfits had been grossly underestimated, for they’d resulted in the Regime’s entire undoing. The panic of his thoughts was just beginning to set in and he reared his head back to the ceiling, fists at his sides let out one great agonized cry.
“Hello, friend.”
Aiden whirled around to see one of his best mates standing in the threshold of the study, his hands folded neatly in front of him. Ales. His sandy hair was overgrown and untidy around his sunken cheekbones. His colorless face seemed to carry years now, though he was just about as old as Aiden was. Ales’ lips mashed into a thin line as he stared back at Aiden in apology.
Unfolding his arms, his voice shook as he said, “They are all dead, your Lordship. All of them. Dalibor. Bedrich. Kazimir. Every platoon. Every troop. Every knight. Dead.”
“My…family… lives.” Aiden gulped, but the sound of his voice was nothing but kettle steam. There was no tone to it, only a kiss of air.
But as he spoke at last, it was as if all the jagged shards of ice inside him melted.
He did not move toward Ales, however. His legs felt numb as he remained fixed to the spot. His friend could have been a hex, sent there by Valek’s little Witch to spy. Or maybe the remaining members of the Regime had seen him coming, and this boy was a mere bewitchment to protect them all from Aiden’s newfound Darkness.
However badly he wanted to, he did not take a step forward.
“What’s happened to you, Aiden?” Ales said, his eyes narrowing. He spoke to him then as he used to, back when they were lads together in the occult city.
Of Blood and Magic Page 14
