Queen to Ashes (Black Dawn Series Book 2)

by Mallory McCartney

  Pure undulated bedlam met them. Kiana roared, two swords in both of her hands. Her eyes seemed to glow, and the magic exploded from her like a dying star. In waves, it battered against what surrounded them. It shredded through bodies so fast, he couldn’t even recognize human from beast. Beast from monster. His body healed rapidly, and blinking, he tried to take in the surroundings. The room was massive, and, homes nestled on the side of the walls, echoing of a life. Of everything Adair had taken.

  A deep emerald gas floated everywhere, the men and women and children walking through it like ghosts, their eyes pitch-black. The white light flared and rippled, parts of it dying as it collided with the gas.

  Brokkkk. He dove as a blade slashed at him, his growls growing as he soared, the attacker smiling down at him. The woman, her hair hanging limply, her eyes holding no flicker of humanity. Of life.

  Brokkk Fosterrr. Chills snaked down his spine. Those voices, they haunted him every night. Every day.

  The blade slashed toward his belly again, and he jumped, teeth meeting blood and bone. Shaking, his mind reeled, the blackened blood covering everything. Behind him, Kiana was yelling, but all he could feel, could smell, was the Oilean’s voices. Their essence. Brokk tried to find them, but the fog thickened, blotting out the people until it was just Kiana’s light guiding them as they were transported from the warzone into a space of nothingness.

  “Can you track them?” Kiana asked.

  He shook his massive head. There were too many scents, and the Oilean were everywhere—in everyone: The air they breathed. The ground, soaking into their nerves, their flesh, their blood. Cursing, Kiana kept her hand on his shoulder, squinting into the emptiness. Find her, find her, find her. Growling, he stalked further into the oblivion, his heart hammering, and he was met with monotone laughter. The fog cleared slightly. Stalling, he tried to make out the shadow coming toward them.

  “Brokk. Foster.” Each word was a promise. Each breath a secret, and Brokk stopped at the sound of the Mad King’s voice.

  Adair came into their view, and it was like he was back at the Academy, that burning hatred for the man in front of him raging until he was reduced to only his emotions. Until it was only them. Bruised skin rimmed beneath his eyes, his hair tousled, his button-down jacket torn and blood-soaked. Amongst the carnage, Brokk took him in, his jet-black eyes flaring ravenously.

  “It’s been a long time, and I must admit, I’m surprised you’re alive. I saw Emory kill you. Right in front of me.”

  Brokk shifted back to his human form in one motion, his body ten steps ahead of him. His hand unsheathed the blade, charging. Brokk’s screams turned into bellows, his rage into obsession.

  Adair ducked too fast, and the edge met empty air. Contorting his body, Brokk slammed his boot down, hoping to meet flesh. The Mad King smiled at Brokk’s horror-filled gaze as his flesh turned to smoke, and he materialized behind him.

  “You know there wasn’t a day that passed where I didn’t hope for this moment with you. That I could look you in the eye and watch everything you hold close dissolve into nothing.”

  Brokk charged. He wouldn’t fall into this verbal battle. Mid-step, his bones cracked as his shapeshifted, launching his powerful muscles over Adair; and his maws latched onto his shoulder. Snapping his teeth down, he expected the screams, the gore. The advantage. Landing hard, Brokk pinned his ears back, and Adair laughed. There wasn’t a mark on him.

  “I expected you to have more questions. But, why, Adair, did you do it? Why kill the Faes? Why did I think you were dead? Why, why, why?” He circled him slowly. Calculating. “I killed for power. The Faes were hiding something that wasn’t theirs to keep. But it saw my heart and knew that I wasn’t different. It accepted me, my darkness and my broken edges. And never asked for anything more than what I am.”

  Brokk’s chest was heaving as he saw in Adair’s exposed skin that his veins were inky. Dread pooled into his gut.

  “And you, I have learned are so, so, talented, Foster. These rumors that have trickled down to me are most intriguing.” Giggles rippled around them.

  Brokk whipped around, and Kiana was gone.

  Adair circled him, murmuring, “We all have our secrets. Yours running deeper than others, it would seem. The Oilean were eager to have the Prince of Nehmai deceived. You were so concerned with your precious rebellion that you gave them the time to spin their lie. To allow me, for a second, to believe Emory. For you to think she had betrayed you. They were even more exhilarated to come finish me off. But it would seem we have come to an agreement under the circumstances.” A slow smile split his lips, his white teeth flashing, coldness settling over his features. “You see, someone beat you to it.”

  Shifting back to his human form, Brokk’s heart pounded. Quickly, he unsheathed one of the blades from his pack. The steel shook from the tremors in his hands, as he rasped, “Beat me to what?”

  The King stalked him, and Brokk couldn’t move. “You cannot kill someone who is already dead. No more lies. No more hiding. I will remake this world. And, I will break it.”

  He stood there and watched the man he hated burst into a thousand shards like glass. Ducking, his forearm flew up, protecting his face. He was thrown back from the impact, and the room came back into focus, the fog ebbing, and he realized he was surrounded. The blank stares, the vacant bodies...

  An entire kingdom under the rule of the Oilean.

  Ice shot through his veins as he ran, pushing past the grappling hands, the bodies, the whispers of “Brookkk Fosterr.” Blood ran down his arm, and his body was slammed to the ground. He choked as dots danced in front of his vision, and he was dragged backward. Adair stood behind him, his invisible claws locking into his heart, his body.

  “You’re leaving before the best part. Aren’t you wondering who stole that privilege away from you?”

  No, no, no, no. A broken sob raked through him. Rising and falling.

  “You see, this body, the man who used to have it, thought he could win. Every second of every day, they have been planning for this moment. Emory was nothing more than a confused woman manipulated by the friends she loved, not understanding what she was fighting for, who she was fighting for. An heir of a family lost. A princess to what? To become queen to whom? There is nothing left of her life here but the ashes that remain.”

  The tears spilled fast and hard.

  “She buried her sword in my heart, knowing I would kill her.” Adair stood on his chest, pressing down. “And all this time, we were playing into my beautiful chaos. Every second of every day, I have us all exactly where I want us now.”

  Bones cracked, and Brokk was paralyzed. He couldn’t shift; he couldn’t breathe.

  Adair sighed. “You know, I will relish tearing you apart. Bit by bit, until you are begging.”

  The world exploded into light. Peerless, untouchable, blinding light. Lying there, Brokk was stunned, watching Adair stagger back. Watching the kingdom stagger back.

  A deafening roar echoed out as a fierce woman ran into his view, a mad glint sparking in her hazel eyes as she yelled, “Brokk Foster, come with me. Kiana has Emory.” She held the most fearsome and exquisite piece of weaponry he had ever seen in his life. The hammer was massive, her toned muscles flexing as she held it with ease. “Move, NOW!”

  Taking in this strange fearsome woman, Brokk couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. All he could hear was a sharp ringing and Adair’s words wrenching through him. She’s. Dead. Dead. Gone.

  Cursing, the woman grabbed his shoulder, shoving him forward and taking his hand to drag him behind her. It was all he could do not to throw up. “Look, Prince, if you do want her to live, you have to move. But you need to hear what I am saying. Emory is with Kiana. She needs help, but we must move. Now.”

  Looking behind him, Adair brandished a massive broadsword, black smoke gathering around his feet like a cyclone, the promise of death in his gaze as he rushed toward them.

  Not needing to be told twice, Brokk g
ripped the stranger’s hand just as the floor beneath them began to shudder. He shifted and the woman stopped, her mouth hanging open, taking in his wolf form. Snarling once, he tried to say, I believe you. A maddening grin split her face and she jumped, nestling onto his back, hammer in hand. And then, they were galloping.

  The mountain was trembling, but Brokk didn’t look back. The woman’s yells mixed in with the cracking of stone. He could feel the ground beneath him, the air rushing past him as he became the creature he was born to be: The man, his breaking heart and fears bleeding into instinct; bleeding into this.

  Huge chunks of stone crashed in front of them as she screamed, “To the left!”

  He responded, feeling the shards of stone against his body, just of out of reach. At the mouth of the hallway, a staircase met them, which he scaled with ease. He heard the screams climbing, their reprieve vanishing with every step. A roar sliced through everything else, and Brokk tried not to falter. Adair screamed his name behind them. Do not stop. Emory tried to kill Adair. Images of her lifeless body fractured through him.

  Brokk pushed harder, the woman screaming at him from his back. But all that mattered was that he went further than he had ever granted himself to go. Past lies and thieves. Past rebels and soldiers. Past his fear and expectations. Past princes and kings. Because a second of this life where Emory wasn’t safe would end everything he had strived to become in a man.

  The sickening blow of metal against flesh brought him shattering back to what he was doing. Recognizing the twisted body of the dabarne, the woman on his back said, “You need to head up these stairs, now, or you will get us both killed.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. The concrete underneath his paws was anchoring. Focusing on his breath, his muscles burned with each propelling motion up the second flight of stairs. The whispers, the screams, the carnage, and the loss bayed at them, their personal serenade, but the woman kept yelling, swinging her hammer unmercifully, and it kept them going. Kept him going.

  Skidding to a halt, the top of the stairs twisting into a darkened hallway, their breath misted in front of them, the chills of winter snaking down his spine. “What the—”

  Brokk felt her get ripped from his back. He shifted in one motion, ripping one of many blades from the sheath and sprinting into the darkness, following her screams. Cursing, he raced into the night. He couldn’t breathe, horror snaking underneath his skin, embedding there, as he stopped. A shadowy figure stood at the end of the hallway, holding a gleaming knife against his companion’s pale throat.

  The shadows were thick, as he growled, “Let. Her. Go.”

  A giggle floated down the hallway, high and chilling. He felt his mouth go slack. His hands started to shake, his breath catching. All he could focus on was his growing panic as he watched the Oilean.

  “Brrrrrroookkkkk.” The Oilean’s neck rolled, cracking as her chilling voice rooted him in place. “I miss the sounds of your screams. The way you looked before we tore you-inch by inch by inch. I miss the way you would beg. The way you looked when you had given up.” The knife moved. “It will be fun to play again, Prince of Nehmai.”

  He was running. The fear a wild thing in his blood, pushing him toward the shadow, the knife, that voice. The shadows exploded, and they surrounded him, his companion they had at knifepoint forgotten. Their pale bodies reached for him, their giggles wrapping around his mind. Brokk roared as he plunged, slashing, his body responding to his will as he shifted back. Blindly, he unsheathed a longer broadsword, the steel hissing as it cut into the air, as he panted, the cold sweat trickling down his neck.

  A cool breath tickled his ear, as the high voice cooed, “Now, you know you have to do better than that.”

  Brokk’s cry broke as he swiveled, and he was transported to that damp basement again. The Oilean held a flickering green flame in her palm, casting the hallway in its sickly glow. They were face-to-face, and ice ran through him, freezing him. The Oileans’ bodies cracked, their limbs extending, turning them into the monsters that had haunted him ever since he was caged under the ground.

  “Come with us, Brokkkk.”

  “Come and play. We want to thank you. What you have allowed us to dooo.”

  Roaring, he forced his body to fight, to react. Their laughs echoed in the darkness as the flames went out. Long, bony fingers wrapped around his wrists, gripping too hard. More fingers grasped around his ankles. A hand was clasped around his neck.

  Screaming, he shifted into his wolf form as he saw them swivel in the darkness, everything sharpening into focus. He saw their pointed teeth, drool trickling down their chins. They ripped at his fur, at his limbs, pulling and dragging. They were too strong.

  He plunged. Gravity slipped from beneath him, and his body folded in on itself, as he was yanked backward. That simple movement and despair welled in his heart. How would he survive the Oilean again? The thought paralyzed him, tunneling down into his thoughts, the darkness waiting for him. It always had been.

  The grittiness of the stone below him dug into his skin, even as Brokk contorted his body, flipping onto his back and shifting. He had lost one sword, but the knife strapped onto him dug into his side, secure. Panting, his hands searched, but he only found empty space. And then he was falling. His screams tore from his chest, his body shifting between man and beast as terror took hold.

  He couldn’t see anything as he dropped.

  Faster.

  Faster.

  Faster.

  The illusion of Adair’s kingdom bled away, slamming onto the slab of concrete, every bone in his body shattering. His vision spun, wheezing as blood bubbled onto his lips. Slap. The sound of flesh on stone echoed around him as he bowed his head, his hands shakily trying to support his body weight, as bone, marrow, and sinew healed at an expedited rate. A long, pale finger pulled his chin up, the cry on his lips dying as she breathed in his face.

  “You have a fire in your heart. Just like your parents, or so we were told.”

  The cavernous room ignited, revealing a huge pool in the middle of the room, the water as smooth as glass. Mammoth, purple amethysts clustered at the bottom, casting the room in their rippling light. The Oilean tilted their heads, their sharpened teeth bared, those lips peeled away.

  “Our newly acquired army would have relished in killing you. The king even more. But after this world, where could we travel, when you can direct us with ease. World after world, we will drain everything of life. Of power. All for our true king.”

  Giggles floated around him. Black dots danced in front of Brokk, blinking furiously as tears streaked down his face, over his scars.

  “But what will be more pleasurable, and don’t you agree, sistersss, is making the prince watch us kill the rebels, ripping and t-tearing them apart.” She shivered in pleasure, her tongue flickering out over her teeth. “Only when you are truly broken, will death be a mercy.”

  They came closer and closer, his heaving breaths coming faster, until they were nearly holding him down again.

  “But that doesn’t mean, Prince—”

  “I am no prince.” Brokk seethed through his tears, through the blood and split skin. Forcing his face into a scowl, he said, “I am a man who is a soldier, but also a dreamer. Who has deep hunger for a better world than this. My best friends have lied to me, manipulated me, and I have blindly followed. I am no longer what anybody claims that I am.”

  His growls turned into yells, as he dipped into his ability, neither caring which one flowed through his veins but allowing all the power to shudder, singing in his blood. “My name—” he rose, claws sprouting from his knuckles, as a pure light ignited around him “—is Brokk Foster. And I’m going to kill you.”

  The shadows erupted around him as he was torn apart. Screams echoed, his own the most prominent. In slow motion, he watched his skin fracture, lines splintering through him. A burning clawed up his throat; light fissured through his body as the Oilean hissed. Shadows met light as he shifted, snapping his
massive jaws.

  And then he evolved.

  He ran, but it was more than just moving. He felt it in his blood, in his heart, his soul. It was a steady whisper against the destruction, against his pain, and it was everywhere: In the air, in the stone, in the mountain. And it told him not to be afraid. He felt that familiar pull in his gut as he lunged toward the creatures from his nightmare.

  Time started to fall away, the calls of distant lands beckoning to him, before Kiana’s voice broke through to him. “BROKK!”

  A cold, snapping wind slammed into him, as the Oilean whipped their heads, the emerald gas growing around them. Landing, Brokk reined his ability in as Kiana stood behind them. Brandishing her blades, she whispered intensely under her breath, and the mountain trembled, the water churned, and the air sparked as it filled with her rage.

  “Sisters of Old, you are not welcome in this world.”

  They hissed, ripping their attention to the new threat.

  Kiana sneered. “Do not make the same mistakes as in the past.”

  They hissed again, whispering, “We will kill you first, Warrior.”

  Kiana smiled.

  Move. Move. Move. Huge chunks of stone started falling all around them, gouging out huge crevices, dust and magic clogging his senses. Kiana was running, her screams calling to him, but he could only take her in. The woman with the sledgehammer bowed her head as she held his best friend cradled in her arms. How she had gotten out and found Kiana was beyond him.

  The woman they had brought back was gone. Emory’s hair framed her face, bloodied and matted, fiery-red ends tangled. Her body, which had never been weak, had more definition. But her chest was caved in, hundreds of needles imbedded into her body. She was drained of color, utterly lifeless. It suffocated him, his mistakes, his grief, destroying him.

  A body slammed into him, and Kiana grabbed his scruff. “Move, Brokk, Move!”

  The Oilean were screaming, as mountain and water surged toward them. It was an indestructible wave of elements, buying them time. Another shudder as emerald light flared. He shifted, grabbing Kiana’s hand as they turned and ran. He shivered against her power, feeling it seep into his skin. They were going too fast, running toward no exit.