Page 7 of A Dagger in the Ivy (Blade Bound #1)

C Hapter

My mother is bleeding.

She’s thrown my bedroom door open in the middle of the night. Her breaths come in short spurts as she holds a hand to her side, the blood seeping through her fingers. Her deep-brown hair is in disarray, and when she sweeps it out of her face, I spot the dagger in her grip.

I sit up in bed, my heart pounding in my throat. “Mother?” My voice is different, the way it was when I was a child. My hands fly to my neck.

She slams the door closed and presses her back against it. She doesn’t light a candle, but the moonlight shines enough to reveal the tears flowing down her face. In the dim, ethereal light, my mother approaches me, her once-radiant visage now etched with sorrow and anguish. Despite the turmoil marking her features, her beauty remains undeniable. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, now mirror the depths of her despair, pools of sadness that seem to pierce through the darkness. The delicate curve of her jawline, once a symbol of grace and elegance, now carries the weight of her grief .

“I’m sorry.” Her voice wraps around me like a sinister whisper, filling me with dread. “I’m sorry.”

I think she means to hug me, and I am both comforted and unsettled, drawn to her with an inexplicable longing even as I recoil from the blood on her hands.

I hold out my arms, ready to accept the embrace, but then I jolt as pain slices through my body. A scream fills the room, and I realize it is my own.

I stare down at the dagger lodged in my chest. The sapphire in the hilt gleams. As the darkness closes in around me, swallowing me whole, I am left to drown in a sea of terror and despair, the echoes of my own anguished cries ringing in my ears as the nightmare consumes me.

I wake with a start, the chill of the night air seeping through the thin fabric of my nightgown, sending shivers racing down my spine. A familiar tingling sensation travels through my body until it condenses to the spot I was stabbed and then disappears. My hand clutches my chest, but there is no dagger impaled there. The pain that was very real a second ago fades almost immediately. Blinking groggily, I find myself standing alone in a desolate landscape cloaked in darkness. The air is clogged with an oppressive silence, broken only by the eerie whispers that seem to echo from the shadows themselves. A sense of foreboding grips my heart as I feel I am not alone.

Fuck, my feet are cold. The chill climbs up my legs and threatens to make me fall.

I shiver, the nightmare of my mother stabbing me fresh in my mind.

But it was only a nightmare. I have to remind myself of this every time I wake from my night wanderings, every time I gasp into consciousness and realize that I have left my bed and the safety of the Garrison. It is always this particular nightmare.

The incident never actually happened. I have no scar from a stab wound. And logic tells me that my mother would never have committed such an act. In my dream, she stabs me with the dagger, but in reality, the dagger was a gift to me from her, passed down through the generations. The nightmare is either my mind’s way of dealing with her death, even all these years later, or it is a symptom of the madness creeping up on me.

I turn. The ground is freezing and the silhouette of the Garrison looms behind me like a specter in the mist. Fog blankets the landscape, obscuring my surroundings in a ghostly embrace.

My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to make sense of my surroundings, a familiar sense of disorientation washing over me like a tidal wave. I am disturbed that it’s happened again—these nocturnal wanderings, these moments of waking in places unknown, with no memory of how I got there. Each time it happens, the fear grips me tighter, the gnawing doubt whispering in the recesses of my mind.

Could madness be consuming me?

Fae who cannot manifest their powers by their twenty-first year—the breaching age—are prone to losing their hold on reality. The knowledge haunts my every step. I’ve seen the madness firsthand, watched as it consumed those who were victim to fate’s cruel hand. And now, as I stand alone in the darkness, approaching my twenty-fourth year with only basic fae magic in my repertoire—minor healing powers, strength and agility above that of the common man—I can’t shake the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of that abyss, that madness waits patiently to claim me as its own.

I can’t afford to dwell on my fears, not now. Not when the fragile peace of my kingdom hangs in the balance. With a trembling breath, I steel myself against the chill, the damp tendrils of mist clinging to my skin like icy fingers taunting me.

Tentatively, I make my way back to the Garrison. The distant howl of wolves causes me to pause. They echo through the night like a haunting melody.

I reach for my dagger, but I remember I’m in my nightgown. Neither my baldric nor my thigh sheath is on me. My dagger sits on the bedside table back in my room. I tell myself the wolves sounded far from here, but I’m so unnerved, I could be wrong.

Turning away from the Garrison for a moment, I scan the dark abyss of the woods nearby. The sound of my breathing fills my ears. My eyes find two small, glowing, yellow points betwixt the trees, and I fixate on them, waiting to see if they move. As my focus adjusts, I’m able to make out the outline of the wolf. Shit. Its gaze is locked on me, and for a moment, I am frozen in place.

Being half-fae, I can move fast, but I’m not sure I could outrun a wolf. After waiting a few minutes, the creature does not move. It simply watches me.

I can’t stay here. I need to get back inside the Garrison. Holding my breath, I take a step and stop. The wolf stays where it is. Another step. And another. But the animal remains in the shadows of the trees. I swallow hard, wondering if I’m pushing my luck. Twelve steps in, I’m convinced that if I do not run, if I keep my pace slow, the wolf will not attack. That belief is the only thing keeping me from passing out with fear.

My feet are battered, caked with freezing mud from my journey back to the Garrison, but I arrive in one piece. I cannot go through the guarded entrance, but I’ve lived here long enough to know where the secret passages are. Before stepping inside, I do my best to remove the grime from my soles so as not to leave muddy footprints on the floor. No one must know that I’ve wandered in my sleep. I can’t let anyone find out, lest they wonder if the madness has claimed me.

When my father was alive, he used to tell me not to worry. He said that because I was half-fae and half-human, my powers were probably taking longer to manifest. He assured me that they would develop before I reached the breaching age. But he died before I reached that age, and now I’m well beyond it, so my optimism to inherit my uncle’s and mother’s power of telepathy or perhaps my grandmother’s power of illusion or my great-grandfather’s rare fire-wielding powers has all but left me.

Instead, I may be fated to succumb to madness.

The people of the realm won’t allow me to remain in the regiment, not to mention command it, if my mind is unstable. As for being queen, a mad ruler is frowned upon—and more often usurped. My brother was clever enough to avoid being labeled as such, and when the sickness left him bedridden, my uncle made sure to claim it as a physical illness to hide the truth from the realm.

Drawing my nightgown tighter around me, I set off toward my room, my senses on high alert for any sign that someone might see me. Each step is a struggle, a silent battle waged in the depths of my soul. But as I reach the door to my room without being seen, a sense of relief washes over me—a fleeting respite from the shadows that haunt my every waking moment.

Safe in my room, I let out a long breath, and my muscles relax a bit. Not completely, though. We leave for Hedera in the morning, and I’m nowhere near ready.