By a Thread

by Nyna Queen

Life, after life, after life.

  Souls, so bright. So tempting. And he needed more. More! So devoured. So hungry!

  He reaped and reaped, drinking them in, sustaining but never quite filling him. Losing himself in the wild, fervent dance in which each step led to a thunderous, bloody finale.

  Life, after life, after life.

  Yet his soul craved for more. Yes, more. He needed more. And there was still more.

  With a snarl, he spun to the two brightly glowing stars in the blood-red darkness. His lips pulled back. They sang to him. So bright. So alive that his chest ached for the sweet release they promised. He wanted it so much it almost ripped him apart.

  His magic coalesced above him and unfurled like black wings. He took a step toward them. Hesitated.

  Why hesitate? He wanted it. He needed it. And yet …

  “U-uncle Darken?”

  Words. Meaningless words. But the terror in them … Ah, such delicious terror. It was the way he liked them, filled to the brink with fear.

  Still, something made him hesitate. There was something about these souls … something … wrong. Something …

  He growled in frustration, poised on the edge of the blade. His magic demanded, pushed him toward the kill.

  “Uncle! Uncle Darken!”

  A word. A name. His name!

  Something teased the crimson darkness like a single ray of sunshine breaking through a clouded window.

  “Uncle?” That voice. He knew that voice. A beloved voice, a cherished voice.

  Josepha! Warmth filled his chest at the sound of the name. And memories: of him, holding her tiny body for the first time, reveling in the wonder of this perfect new life cupped in his lethal hands; Josepha rocking on his knees, laughing herself silly about the story of the man and the bull because he had used the names of the family for the characters; her small hand in his, strolling along a deserted beach; stolen moments, precious moments, glowing like the light of a candle in the heavy darkness of his life. The memories filled him, flooded him, warm and pleasant, winding through him like ribbons of light that cocooned around his heart.

  The darkness pressed on him, pulled at him. He took a step back. It was like clipping a pair of tweezer into his vein and yanking it out of his arm. His magic raged, hungry, and wild.

  Kill, it demanded. Kill! You want it. You need it!

  He shuddered, fighting the currents. No. Josepha. And Maxwell. Family. His family.

  He clawed through the darkness, every fiber screaming from the pain.

  Another step. The red haze shivered. Fire burned through his skin, shaking him, consuming him. It felt like dying.

  Another step. Another.

  The haze wavered and shattered like a wall of red glass bursting into shards and through the smithereens of his blood frenzy he could see his niece and nephew, less than ten feet away from him, in the middle of the carnage he’d evoked.

  Josepha stood in front of Maxwell—Great Mother, Max!—who was hugging the ground, but except for a spectacular bruise on his forehead he appeared to be fine.

  They didn’t move.

  Josy’s eyes flickered to his right and he realized he was still holding his bloody sword. The blade landed in the blood-drenched grass.

  He took a staggering step toward them. They both flinched.

  The wariness in their eyes almost broke his heart.

  Darken raised a shaking hand—

  Something cracked behind him.

  Darken spun around, nostrils flaring.

  Nothing moved. The remains of the ruined coaches strewn around by the vicious blast of his magic formed two mounds of molten metal and debris between him and the forest, separated by a small swath.

  Another rustle.

  Fire rolled over Darken’s eyes and his magic stirred, lazily, almost like a question.

  With predatory caution, he approached the wrecks, setting his feet silently and lightly, sliding through the swath like a feline on soft paws.

  Just short of the forest edge lay a bigger chunk of wooden debris, with shreds of rich royal blue fabric still clinging to it—part of what had been a seat-bench in its former life—and beside it …

  Well, well, well, now look at that. Missed one.

  The man was curled on the floor, halfway hidden by the wooden mess. At the sight of Darken, his eyes opened wide and he tried to scramble backward. To his trouble a beam had wedged itself across his right leg, pinning him in place. From the look of that leg, it was crushed and broken in several places. He wouldn’t run on that one for his life.

  Darken detached from the coaches and strolled toward him, slowly, calmly, a hunter sneaking up on prey caught in a trap.

  The man became frantic, clenching his teeth, pushing and clawing at the beam, the sound of his rasped breathing echoing over the clearing that now was as silent as a graveyard. Which it was.

  His spiking fear obviously gave him a boost, for he managed to raise the beam enough to pull himself free, though he probably left a few layers of skin behind. He tried to get to his feet, but the shattered leg predictably gave out and he landed hard on the grass, howling with pain. Throwing a panicked look over his shoulder, he started to pull himself forward on hands and elbows, dragging the dead-weight of his body.

  Darken followed him. He didn’t rush, allowing the man another couple of excruciating inches, before he finally stepped up to him and squarely placed his foot on the back of the shattered leg.

  The scream that followed took even longer to die.

  When it finally did, Darken bent down, gripped him by the scruff of his gray jacket and flipped him over on his back. Terrified eyes glared at him from a pale face under a shock of jet-black hair. This one was young. Barely twenty. Exactly the age of Captain Thomas Cammryn.

  Disgust wormed through Darken as he stared down at the kid.

  Did you kill him? Or did you let the others do the dirty work? To have gotten this far, he must have been one of the first to run.

  Darken seized him by the collar. A growl laced his voice. “Why?” he snarled. “Why are you after my niece and nephew? Why are you trying to kill them?”

  “K-kill?” The young man turned, if possible, even paler and wildly shook his head, “N-not k-kill! N-not kill! J-j-just abduct.”

  Abduct, huh? “To what end?”

  A stubborn expression flickered over the kid’s face, tightening his jaw muscles. Darken almost laughed. Here he was, pinned down by a forfeit and the young buck thought this was the time to play cocky.

  With a cold smile, Darken put a bit more weight onto his front leg.

  “Their father!” the kid shrieked as soon as he could gulp a breath. “Their father, their father!” Spittle flew from his lips. “T-to h-have leverage against Stephane Dubois-Léclaire.”

  “Why?”

  The kid hesitated only for a fraction of a second. “S-so he renounces his c-c-candidature.”

  So, this was about his brother after all. Figured. Too bad they had run across the wrong brother on their way. Not that Steph would have shown them much mercy, considering the circumstances.

  Darken tightened his grip, pulling him closer. “Who hired you?”

  The kid wriggled in his grip, trying in vain to pull away. “I dunno nothing. I swear. Please. It hurts. I need a healer.”

  “What you need,” Darken crooned, his voice turning into a deep sing-song, “is to answer my question.”

  “But I don’t know anything!”

  Raising his right hand, Darken studied his fingers, letting his magic play around the fingertips in dark whispers of night.

  “No, please!” the young man wailed, licking bloodless lips. “I don’t know anything. I swear. I swear.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Darken reached out and touched the man’s cheek. It was almost a lover-like caress and for a second the kid’s expression became confused, well-nigh dreamy, and then his eyes opened wide and he started to scream. His body cramped, twitching in Darken’s unre
lenting grip.

  Darken watched him squirm without expression, while he sent controlled bursts of pain into his body.

  If he knew something it was how to inflict pain. This, the Order had taught him very well. Not that it would take much to break his current victim. The young buck was arrogant and mouthy but crumpled at the first sign of headwind. People like him were the ones who relented first under torture. A little pushing and he would spill everything he knew and his own mother’s darkest secrets on top.

  When Darken felt the heartbeat and pulse reach dangerous levels, he eased back enough for the kid to draw a shaky breath.

  “Okay,” the young man moaned, face contorted with pain. “Stop. Please, stop. I’ll t-tell you everything I know. S’not much is all.”

  Snot was running from his nose. He was crying—and Darken hadn’t even gotten started yet.

  “We … we never met the big boss,” the kid said. “Never spoke to him, either. Everything went through a middleman, and even he only contacted Dalmian over vis-a or halfie-mobile. And he used a voice changer, you could tell. Always called the boss ‘the master,’ like he was some great superhero or something.” He swallowed, his face sweat-sheened. “Dalmian got us the gig. He—he sometimes gets these deals. Never asked him where he gets ‘em from—cause, honestly, I don’t care. Something about a ‘bluebird.’ The payment is good, that’s why I’m in. Half up front, half when the job is done. Man has to make a living, don’t he?”

  If he’d expected Darken to agree, he was disappointed, so he quickly rushed on: “So, this messenger-guy called Dalmian last night. Said one of his men would bring the Dubois children out of the Pacified Zone. Told us when and where we should be waiting to take them. We were supposed to sedate them and then they were to be brought to some secret meeting point, but only Dalmian and Kent—his second—knew where that was. Rest of us was supposed to scram with the dead bodies and the coach as soon as the job was done. Drive them over a cliff or something to make them disappear. That’s all I know.”

  Darken just looked at him and waited.

  And waited.

  “The—the messenger—he arranged for the coaches and the guards to show up,” the kid added quickly, his chest rising and falling faster and faster. “Dunno how, but I suspect he has ties to the D-family. I mean, how else would he get them to move? So, he told us where we should ambush the coaches and that’s what we did. We took the coaches, killed the guards, and then Kent did his shit and resurrected them, so they could lure the children down. But that’s really all. I swear it!”

  Unfortunately, Darken believed him. The kid was a low-ranker. And deeply afraid of pain. His mates were dead, so he had nothing to gain from lying.

  His face had turned chalk-white. Sweat was running down his temples and building on his upper lip. He was about to black out from the pain and blood loss. This was the moment when the human mind was most susceptible.

  Darken leaned forward, his lips almost brushing the man’s cheek, letting his tendrils of magic nip him. “This was all?”

  The kid shuddered. “Yes,” he whispered, his eyes becoming distant. Darken leaned on his magic and felt no resistance, no barriers. He was telling the truth.

  “Hurt …” the young man mumbled, shivering. “… healer …”

  Darken raised his head. Bitterness filled him at the sight of the battlefield around him. All those dead people, the ones he’d killed, the dead guards of the family … all this—for a political game!

  He stared down at the arrogant young buck at his knees, who didn’t mind other people’s deaths for a convenient paycheck. Yes, a healer would be able to save him. Unlike the other men strewn across the field. Unlike Captain Thomas Cammryn. It wouldn’t resurrect him. Or ease the grief of his and the other families. In his mind’s eye, the kid’s face changed to that of the young Captain, his bloodless face and empty eyes staring at the bright sky overhead. Rage flared through him and for a split second the world turned bright, scorching red.

  Something gave way beneath his hands.

  Slightly confused Darken stared at the bits of fabric clinging to his fingers. The young man was gone and for a blink, Darken thought the kid might have somehow used his minuscule blackout to slip away.

  A white snippet clung to his sleeve. He picked it up. Frowned at it. It was a tiny chunk of bone. And then the truth dawned on him.

  The kid was here. In fact, he was everywhere around him—and on him.

  A gasp.

  Darken surged to his feet and pivoted, swaying slightly.

  Max and Josy were standing between the heaps of the ruined coaches, staring at him from huge, shocked eyes.

  He realized that they must have seen everything. All that he had wanted to keep from them, all he had wished they would never know, never see, it was all out in the open. The moment he had dreaded since their births had finally arrived. Oh, he’d known the day would come when all the blinders were removed, and they finally saw his true face—a face covered in the blood he had spilled—but he had always expected to have more time with them. Another year, another month, another day. Not so soon. Not today.

  Pain hooked into his chest, so much worse than anything his magic could ever do to him. He knew there were no words to make this good again. No explanations. No justifications.

  So he just stood there and waited for them to turn away, like everybody else, knowing he would have to let them go.

  Seconds trickled by. Then, as if waking from a shock, they stirred. But instead of running away from him, they stumbled toward him, Josy first and Max behind her, favoring his recently healed leg.

  “Uncle!”

  “Uncle Darken!”

  They rushed into his arms, almost knocking him over with their force. He stood frozen for a second, unable to comprehend what was happening, and then he found himself grabbing them, holding on to them with frantic desperation, letting their closeness, their acceptance fill the aching hollowness inside him. It fed the chain of light that held his magic under control, burning through the rest of the red mist that still fogged his mind. The last shreds of the battle haze dissolved, bringing back clarity.

  Yet with the clarity came a chilling realization.

  He raised his head, his eyes darting over the carnage. A terrible apprehension gripped his chest.

  “Where is Alex?”

  “They took her!” Josy took a step back, her lips trembling. “She—she tried to save us, but t-they beat her with clubs.”

  A dangerous chill went over him. Such a dangerous, dangerous chill.

  “Where, darling? Where did they take her?”

  She pointed a shaking finger. “They pulled her into that grove. Over there.”

  Black misty fingers whispered over his skin. Death teased him, and he invited her in with open arms.

  “Go up behind the wards,” he growled, “and whatever happens—do not leave them!”

  He didn’t wait for them to obey, knowing they would, as he swiped his sword and dashed for the forest.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  THERE was no way for Alex to stop it. The blade drove into her stomach, ripping through skin, tearing through flesh and muscle. Pain exploded in her belly, hot and fierce and Alex reared up, screaming into her gag.

  Scarface cocked his head to the side, brows pulling together. “Sorry, did you say something?”

  With a grin, he turned the knife another inch, the ragged edges ripping at her intestines. Pain bloomed inside her like a vicious rose, mincing her guts with its thorns. Alex howled, fists and feet struggling in her bonds. The pain was excruciating. Hot tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.

  “Oh, you mean it hurts a little. How about this?”

  Alex screamed and screamed until the sound turned into a gurgle from the blood filling her throat.

  Scarface kept twisting the knife, his laughter mixing in her ears with the rushing of her own blood as it pooled around her, soaking her clothes, dripping out of her drop by drop.<
br />
  Through the veil of tears, she saw her torturer leaning over her. He almost gently pushed a blond strand out of her bruised, sweat-slicked face.

  “As they say, all good things come to an end. I must say—”

  A wet, growling sound, that raised the hairs on Alex’s body, rippled through the clearing.

  Scarface looked up. The smile slipped from his face, replaced by pure horror.

  Something crashed into his side and with a shriek, he vanished from her sight.

  A couple of screams were followed by a row of whimpering begs and pleas that quickly turned into a high-pitched scream and ended abruptly.

  Silence filled Alex’s ears, as well as her mind, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the absence of noise or because she was finally slipping away.

  Everything dulled around her, even the pain. Her sight was blackening in from the edges, a thread pulling her down, down, down into the darkness, away from the light, away from air, away from life.

  The last thing she saw was Darken, stepping over her, his face a mask of wild fury, eyes two glowing red pools of unforgiving fire.

  Blood dripped from his dark hair like crimson dew. Sun rays broke through the canopy bathing him in red and golden flames—a bloody revenge angel coming right out of the bowels of hell.

  Terrifying. Beautiful.

  Her vision melted until his face was the only thing she saw, until he was everything in the world that still mattered.

  And in that moment, she wished she could have kissed him one more time. That, instead of being hurt and stupid this morning, she would have found the guts to give it a try. It would have been worth it. Sweet Jester, it so would have been worth it.

  It was her last regret before the darkness claimed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DARKEN pulled his blade out of the chest of the scar-faced man and kicked his body away. The bastard had died with as much honor as he’d lived with: none.

  His pain had been brief, but exquisite, and in the end, he had begged for his life, had even tried to bargain his way out.

  Well, they had already stricken a bargain with Death the moment they’d decided to tangle with his family and signed it in blood when they had dragged Alex away with them. He was only here to collect.