Queen to Ashes (Black Dawn Series Book 2)

by Mallory McCartney

  Gasping after she stopped and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, hot tears streaked down her face. Biting her shaking knuckles, Emory screamed: The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and she ripped her hand away, her breath coming in ragged gulps.

  She was in a lethal dance between her past and the truth; between love and loyalty. Closing her eyes for a moment, she willed herself to see all their faces: Memphis. Brokk. Alby. Azarius. Even Nyx. She hoped they were safe and had found time to grieve for the Rebellion. And as for Nyx, Emory hoped that she had time to explain her actions, that she didn’t lose her only family.

  Standing, she shook as she took off her bloodied and grim covered clothes then slipped into the steamy waters. It instantly turned pink from the blood. Taking the creamy bar of soap, Emory scrubbed herself until her skin was raw. Her mind spun in the harsh play-by-play: The real Brokk coming to Adair’s doorstep would warrant his death. Would Brokk follow in Emory’s footsteps in being dangerously reckless?

  Inhaling and closing her eyes, she dunked underwater, allowing herself to free float. The water was steaming hot, loosening the knots in her muscles, unravelling her tension, but those whispers that had chased her finally caught up.

  Emory Fae, liar, betrayer. She wouldn’t have been able to go through with her plan if the Rebellion had known; Memphis would have tried to stop her. Her heart gave a painful clench, and her lungs were on fire as she burst upward, gasping for oxygen, splashing water everywhere, before slipping back under.

  Those final days and nights in the cell were filled with terror. Darkness had seeped from every angle, and her mind was the main target. Memory after memory had come to her in her sleep, in the prison of Adair’s kingdom.

  And she remembered the frigid air circling around her as she pled with Memphis and Brokk to come with her. And how Memphis had taken away her memories of Kiero, of her life right before she was plunged into the unknown world. She had been so wrong about her mysterious shifter. Brokk had been twisted by a best friend’s jealousy, and she had complied, not allowing him to prove what he had been to her—what he meant to her.

  Busting through the surface of the water again, her lungs screamed for mercy. Rubbing her eyes, Emory sighed deeply. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of Adair somewhere nearby-the snippets of her life slowly being pieced together.

  She would play her part flawlessly. She would pass these trials, and then as Queen, she would free Kiero, liberate the Rebellion, and destroy Adair.

  If she survived.

  If she believed she had a running chance to overcome Adair and find a way to get to the Rebellion.

  If. If. If.

  Standing, she got out of the tub when she heard the clattering in her room. Wrapping herself in a soft towel, Emory poked her head around the corner, seeing the back of a woman fleeing her room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Stalking toward her bed, Emory eyed where a small tray of sliced meats, cheeses, and fruits now lay on her nightstand. Her mouth dropped opened and she lunged toward the tray, shoveling it in. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten.

  “Holy shit, this is good,” she mumbled to herself knowing she wouldn’t be any use half-starved.

  Finishing the tray, Emory sighed, flopping on the bed. The whispers of her mind lured her into a restless sleep filled with dreams of dark eyes and steel cages that tried to keep her locked away.

  And then there was herself, never fast enough to outrun any of them.

  Chapter Three

  Brokk

  He was a lot of things: time manipulator, soldier, shapeshifter. But as he skidded to a stop, his fur matted and sides heaving, Brokk realized, in this moment, he was just a broken man.

  The scene was splayed before him, slashing into his core and devouring any hope he had clung to. Ash coated the once rolling hill, and where the Academy once stood, all that was left was the skeletal frame of his home, laid bare for the world to see. The air tasted of blood-stale, old blood.

  Panting, he licked his maws and lowered his muzzle to sniff the crusted ground. Scents assaulted him, Adair’s men and Nyx’s scent the most prominent, and he allowed the sorrow to flood in.

  The Academy, its empty windows now exposed, brick and metal scattered amongst the ruin and ash. Flashes, ghosts of the past, tugged on his consciousness, and growling, he shook his head, pleading with them to leave him alone. But as he numbly forced his paws forward, his nails digging into the scorched ground, they struck him anyways.

  Moving slowly and deliberately, his thoughts were relentless. These woods, ancient and unyielding, had been his fascination and safe hold. Flashbacks of the last time he had seen Emory as she remembered him and not as Memphis portrayed him, came to him next-of a time before Memphis had placed a hand gingerly on her temple and erased her memories: Of her parents, of Memphis, of him. And he had allowed her a taste of another life, of freedom.

  Shuddering, he stalled. Were they all lost to him now, after everything he had fought for, had sacrificed? It had killed him to give Emory distance, to be a shadow of her actions.

  Brokk snarled under his breath, his frustration building. At the time lost, at not taking the chance to find his way back to her. His fur bristled as he threw back his head, his howl lamenting and resonating up to the dying light of the day. He had been too late.

  Numbly, he entered the front door of the Academy, wires and cords exposed in the fading light, the frame barely standing. His hackles rose against at the scent that greeted him: Death. He continued into the hallway, growling lowly. Everything was destroyed; everything was burnt.

  Red smears covered the cement walls, Adair’s signature mark. He stopped, staring at the jagged slash. It was red, like the blood on his hands: His lies, his passion, his shadows, his heart. He sometimes forgot that this madness was born from a broken boy who had dreamt of a different life.

  Shaking his head, he loped toward the empty elevator then skidded to a halt and looked down the shaft. The darkness prevented him from seeing anything, and with a deep breath, he threw himself forward, freefalling. The wind howled, and everything was disorientating. Landing hard, several bones cracked and broke; white hot pain flared through him, and he lay panting as the bones healed, and his eyes adjusted.

  He stepped forward and froze.

  Decay and destruction surrounded him, suffocating him. He gagged on the scent that overwhelmed him as he took in what was left of the Black Dawn Rebellion. Destroyed. His friends. His family, lost in the darkness, mixed in with Adair’s soldiers.

  Dead, their ashes and bones remaining.

  His heart throbbed with each loss: Jaxson. Wyatt. Bryd. He moved silently, a demon amongst them. I should have been here. To help them, to fight with them. And to die with them.

  Brokk’s whine echoed off the stone walls, lost in the hallways.

  Stalking toward Memphis’s room next, he feared the worse. He had caught his friend’s scent and hers. It was only a matter of minutes before he stood outside the broken frame, trying to make sense of what he smelled.

  Nudging the door, it slowly cracked open, bits of it breaking off in ash: The bunker had been upturned, and the bookshelf violently moved over to the side, exposing steps leading down into a tunnel. A secret tunnel. An escape. His heart pounded, and he quickly shifted back to his human form, breathing raggedly. Catching his reflection in a broken mirror beside the bookshelf Brokk frowned, steadying himself. His wounds from the Oilean had healed, leaving scars that roped around his biceps, shoulders, and neck. A constant reminder of the torture they had inflicted, his terror never truly leaving him.

  Grimly ripping his gaze from his reflection, Brokk set his resolve. For the first time since bringing Emory back, he dove deep into the pool of power that raged to escape him; ice ran through his veins. His head pounded as the world spun, and he was spiraling, shadows and whispers circling him.

  Suddenly, he was back in the past, and he opened his eyes to see his b
est friend, Memphis, standing before him dressed in formal wear, pushing Emory down the staircase, frantically urging her to go. Her eyes were wide, her face flushed, fear and defiance oozing from her. Brokk turned his head toward the screams of his dying friends lost in time then watched as the bookcase slid shut, Emory frozen, her heart breaking in her eyes.

  Memphis turned around, running through him, and opened the doors, rushing back toward the fight. He looked lethal, a deadliness in his eyes Brokk had never seen before. He roared for Nyx, and the memories blurred, Brokk’s heart breaking entirely. He had to hold on.

  He saw Memphis and Nyx. Shaking, the same amulet hung around her neck the night Nyx had stabbed him.

  Nyx cried, “Memphis, I never thought....”

  Memphis’s silence was icy as he launched attack after attack—an uncaged beast—and threw himself at Nyx, rage moving him with one purpose. To kill. They danced around each other, lunging, growling, Nyx parrying each blow, her muscles trembling as sparks flew. He watched Jaxson fight for his life in the background.

  Memory slid into memory, and he could do nothing as Jaxson died, as Memphis and Nyx were captured. It wasn’t until the screams died down that the remaining soldiers flooded the hallway, binding the two of them. Memphis was unconscious by this point. The soldiers split up as his friends were dragged away. Two stayed behind, casually lighting a fire in the dining hall.

  Walking back toward Memphis’s room, Adair’s soldiers stopped and looked, commenting, “Where do you think she went? Couldn’t have gotten too far...”

  Brokk stood in horror as he watched them search the room, flames growing larger and moving faster, smoke billowing down the hallway and engulfing the Academy. They found the secret tunnel in a matter of minutes, following Emory into the darkness as the edges of his vision flickered, and he was brought back in the present, into his world of ashes.

  Choking on his breath, bile rose in his throat. He held his stomach as he retched. They had been butchered, unaware as Nyx led Adair straight into their rebellion. But they had survived-some had survived. An inhuman growl ripped from him as he ran toward the tunnel, shifting mid-flight into his wolf form, barrelling down into the passage.

  He left his past behind in that moment, leaving the Academy, leaving his friends, leaving his soul. A spark had lit up within him; fire consuming him with each pounding step as he promised to himself he would kill Adair. He would tear his throat out with his bare teeth, and that would be a merciful end for what he had done.

  The emptiness resonated through him, each loss making a hole in his heart until it was shattered, and he was lost.

  Blindly, he ran faster, further into the depths of the world. Dampness surrounded him, and he couldn’t focus on where he was going, couldn’t focus on the scents, couldn’t focus on anything but the burn throughout his body as he pushed himself. Dull colors blurred around him as he soared, curving with each turn.

  His thoughts flickered with each movement: Emory, Memphis, Alby, and Nyx. They were alive. His fears reared to life, every worst-case scenario burning images into his mind. He snapped at the thought. Nyx had brought this upon them, but she wasn’t stupid enough to not know how destructive Adair was. He had wiped out their world, their families. Nyx’s motive was love—the thought of losing Memphis. She had sold out everything, their cause, to have Memphis to herself.

  Maybe Brokk would kill her first.

  The dampness of the tunnel encompassed him as he galloped faster. The torture he endured with the Oilean was nothing compared to this. Skidding to a stop, he panted when he realized he had come to a sloping incline that met with a ladder popping out into the grassy land overhead. His grief gripped at him, latching on, threatening to drag him down. Take a breath.

  He inhaled weeks-old scents trying to figure out what had happened. She wasn’t wounded, but the soldiers’ scents were still strong. There had been a fight until... He growled deeply. Pacing back and forth, he inhaled again, trying desperately to make sense of what he smelled. Another human he did not recognize was mixed in. The stranger’s ability oozed onto everything, marking it with its strong scent. Whoever it was had saved her.

  Throwing his weight back onto his haunches, Brokk propelled himself upward, scaling the ladder with ease in his wolf form, then landing onto the grass outside. Lowering his nose, he followed the scents once more, painting a picture for him. Emory had been flung onto the ground. The stranger, a human male, had caused a distraction. He stopped and followed the deep grooved indents into the earth until he stumbled onto the decayed bodies of the soldiers.

  Galloping back to the edge of the forest Brokk looked longingly toward it. Emory had trusted him enough in that moment to follow him, to allow him to help her. Others had survived. His heart raced at an uneven pace. Adair had not put out Kiero’s light. Not yet.

  Stepping forward, to the edge of the woods, his hair stood on end, his body freezing. The world was bathed in golden hues with red-tinged edges, and the sun quickly moved lower in the sky. Shifting back to his human form, he sat on the sloping earth.

  For the first time in years, he watched the sun glow in brilliance, reflecting its crimson hues on everything it touched. His breath came in ragged heaves, and dropping, he hugged his knees, caving into himself. Tears blurred his vision as he allowed the utter hollow feeling to overtake him: Being trained as a soldier, he would pick himself up and keep going.

  He would not fail to save the people that made up his world.

  He couldn’t lose Emory again.

  He would not let their spark sputter and die.

  Above all, he would not let his friends’ deaths be in vain. If after all these years he gave into defeat now, it would have been all for nothing.

  Swiping his bloodied hands across his cheeks, he watched the horizon as the last of the sunlight burned over the horizon, casting shadows over the Draken Mountains and the Ruined City before darkness tinged the edges of their world.

  Standing on shaking legs, he turned to look at the scorched remains of The Academy one last time.

  Bowing his head, he whispered into the air, “It was our home. I loved and lost there. We all did. I hope you all find peace beyond this world.” Taking a steadying breath, his voice cracked when he added, “I’m so sorry. I should have been there with you.” The words tasted heavy and like ash as they rolled over his tongue.

  He placed a scarred hand over his heart, and then lurched forward, every human aspect of him shattering as he gave in to his beast. His paws soon thundered over the ground, and he inhaled deeply, catching Emory’s scent and allowing it to overtake everything he was. He would track her first and bring her back.

  The sun dipped further into the horizon as he ran, brilliant highlights blending the hues. He allowed the thought to propel him forward, always toward her. No matter what stood in-between them.

  ***

  Their world was changing; he could taste it in the air, feel it beneath his paws. The night air was heavy as Brokk wove in between the trees. He didn’t know how many hours had passed, but he pushed himself harder and harder, relishing in the burn of his muscles, in the ragged catch in his breath. He had followed the stranger’s relentless pace.

  Snarling, he soared over a fallen tree, the ground thundering from his force. You could have helped them. Brokk pinned his ears back, baring his teeth. The Academy has fallen. He ran faster, his golden fur a streaking comet in the night. Your family is dead. He was consumed by the beating of his heart, by the forest and his blurred surroundings. His demons and guilt chased at his heels, but he would always be faster.

  The ground sloped upward as he scaled the hill, grinding to a stop for a moment. The forest was thinning, and he could see the skeletal remains of the Ruined City. But his gaze fixated on one thing, the Draken Mountains behind them—and Adair.

  A sharp whine escaped him, then he was flying, following their scents straight toward The Mad King’s realm, his hopes melting away into the night, flaring for a flee
ting second before they were stripped away, one by one.

  Hitting the Ruined City limits, he didn’t stop, couldn’t look too closely at the life and culture that had been stripped of Sarthaven. Once upon a time, it was the heart of Kiero. He wove through the crumbling buildings, the streets a blur as he made sharp turns, their journey flashing before his eyes.

  Until he stopped.

  Shifting back, sweat plastering his skin, golden hair slicking to his forehead, his wild gaze hungrily consumed the empty space before him. A stream of harsh curses flowed from him as he sat on his heels, cupping his head in his hands. It didn’t make sense. Peeking through his fingers, he willed the bloodstains in the abandoned building to disappear or to erase the scents he had catalogued in his mind and the story they told.

  The blatant truth stared him in the face. The truth he couldn’t believe.

  Baring his teeth, he slammed a fist into the concrete, all his knuckles breaking in a fluid moment, pain momentarily freezing him.

  He knew he could dip into that well of power, to trace back through the memories in time. To see it play out before his very eyes. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Feeling his broken bones pop and heal themselves, Brokk allowed himself one second and a harsh breath cut through his lungs. His limbs shook, and he cast a look back at the Draken Mountain Range, willing it not to be true.

  His anger lashed out then, igniting him, and every aspect of his core yearned for a fight, especially with Adair and his doppelganger that had also ventured past this city into the heart of darkness. But this man and Emory had gone willingly. Fear mixed in with determination drenched their scents, and one scent that had left the city cut into him. And it wasn’t Emory’s.

  Chewing his lower lip, he looked at the stain and back at the mountain range. Then, he was sprinting, his boots pounding against the ground, leaving the city of ghosts behind him. With a howl, he shifted mid-run, his wolf form pushing him forward again, racing toward Memphis and Nyx. Toward the stranger and the other scents of people he led.