Page 10 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MYLA WEARS A simple green dress, nothing astonishing to draw attention. The neckline scoops just above her collarbone and modest sleeves button at her wrists. The skirt is full, concealing any shape she may have, and her hair is pulled into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck. More than anything, Myla wants to get through her night of charades without having to fend off advances from Vesperian. Taking an innovative approach, per her council’s advice, Myla imagines their message is on its way this very moment, hopefully carried by a swift raven. Lady Reacher now stands before her in the throne room, eyes swollen from hot tears and her body slight with disparity.

“Please, Your Grace. Tell me what has happened to Ariel.”

There is no straightforward answer. To show sympathy and admit that Ariel is being held in a discreet room, drugged into silence by Alaric until the Blood Stealer’s demise, would expose her plan. The more people knowing of her true stance, the higher the risk of an unplanned exposure. Myla can not be sure Lady Reacher’s late husband exposed their plan to his wife, and therefore, a callous response is the only safe one.

“Your daughter is being punished for her insubordination.” The words taste like rusting metal on her tongue. Never once in her five years as queen has Myla treated her subjects like pests to be dismissed. She comforts herself by focusing on the task at hand. In a matter of twelve or so hours, this should all be over. Hopefully, I am still here to see that , Myla thinks morbidly.

“She is . . . she is a good girl, Your Grace.” Tears swell down the sunken cheeks of the new widow, piercing the dagger of memories into Myla’s heart. The hopelessness, the directionless wandering. The first days of widowhood are bleak.

“Lady Reacher,” Myla seethes, certain the darkness forming in her eyes, despite the desire to comfort, does not fail her. “Unless you wish to leave your daughter an orphan, I suggest you silence yourself.” It is not an empty threat whatsoever. Desperate people do desperate things which usually lead to unbearable consequences. Says the Queen of Desperate . . . something, I am wise to remember.

A harrowing cry slips from the poor woman as she turns away, making her way out of Myla’s presence, leaving guilt and an urgency to right things in her wake. The silence does not last long, however, for the vigilant fiancé, Vesperian Shayd enters, his hands hidden behind his back in a cunningly mysterious way.

Afternoon light glints off the dark streaks of hair brushing against his forehead and lines of scars travel across his arms and neck. In the daylight he is the epitome of a handsome, misunderstood villain. Only, he is not misunderstood, merely unstoppable. He is handsome, dangerously so, making him lethal for an entirely different reason than one might expect of the Blood Stealer.

Elsa’s poorly timed joke rings in her ears. You can be at my service any day. He is a deadly sort of alluring. The kind that lures you in, convincing you that it is your idea, then completely ruins you, right after he has devoured your values, leaving you hollow and helpless. If he were to have been a woman, one might refer to him as a siren. Unfortunately for him, his voice does not captivate her.

“You hide something from me,” she says, tilting her chin toward his concealed arms, unease stirring in her middle.

“Show me, or I will be forced to make you.”

A dangerous smile melts the frost of his icy features. “That sounds rather tempting, darling. Unfortunately for me, there are no cuffs on my bedposts—the late king seems a dull fellow. In any case, making me do anything might prove hard for you.”

Her middle constricts with the lurch of her breath. His effect, not her own. She reminds herself the insatiable attraction is fabricated, a temptation of his own design. “Making you do what I want though,” he whispers, moving closer and closer with an inhuman precision, appearing to glide. “I could make you fall to your knees now and beg me to take you to bed. I could make you cut your own throat with the dagger I know is hidden beneath your skirts.” His hand trails down her waist, knotting a handful of silk between his fists. Myla swallows, her lips parting as she licks her dry lips, anxious for something to moisten them. Stop it. Even his threat of a gruesome murder feels exhilarating. Arousing, even.

“Shall I lift up your skirt and see what else you hide from me?”

Gathering her wits, painfully aware of the uneasily shifting guards in the room, Myla forces a demure smile and presses a hand to his chest. “Only if you show me what you hide behind your back. Is it for me?”

He lets out a slow, playful sigh before revealing a blue vial the size of his little finger. It is corked and sealed with black wax making it look like something she and her mother would make with the druids. “On the topic of controlling you,” he continues, “do you know what I hold here?”

Myla shakes her head. The contents of the vial are a deep velvet crimson. There is a pulsing glow within it, clearly not a naturally occurring element. “What is it?” Myla asks, having an uncontrollable need to reach out and seize the vial.

Vesperian retreats, shoving the vial into his pocket before linking his fingers with hers, holding her closer than proper. Not that anything proper has occurred inside these palace walls in a week. Her mind escapes to thoughts of Bryar’s fingers, then back to the present. Her body is unwittingly responding to Vesperian’s pull, allowing him to own her, should he wish to. Fingers are fingers. The thought is jolting, and Myla attempts to reason with herself. He wants to own you, you fucking moron. Stop being weak.

Vesperian’s words are enough to bring her back to reality. “It is an oath reversal which my healer concocted at my request.”

Myla stiffens, feeling delirious at the prospect that her cure is mere inches away. This thing which has plagued her existence for the last twenty-four months could be cured today, if only she can get her hands on that vial.

“Careful,” Vesperian whispers, his lips flicking her ear. “You are going to hurt my feelings if you look like you want that any more than you already do. More than you want me. ”

Myla checks her breathing before placing a tender hand on his cheek. “You can not blame me for wanting to know my feelings for you are my own.”

He grins, a finger teasing her jawline until it presses firm into her lips. “Tell me more. About those feelings.”

Gods . Myla knows she must convince him. That vial, acquiring it at all costs, must come before her pride. She grips the collar of his leather vest and turns him around, pushing him backwards until he sits stunned in her throne. A dark gleam circles his pupils as though his very life source is being fueled. Of course, it is. Lust, longing, and praise are his favorite meals. I will be his fucking main course if I need to.

Myla moves nimbly until she straddles him where he sits, his chin level with her breasts and his breathing suddenly shifting dangerously close to anticipation. “I can not sleep,” she whispers, holding his head still by a handful of thick hair, her other hand tracing promises into his throat before slowly moving lower toward his belt. “I wake up wondering where you are, willing you to appear next to me. The seconds you are away from me, I feel like I can not breathe, like I never drew a full breath until you arrived here.” She pauses, allowing the words to fill every crevice where his ego is starving, lapping up her attention like a pathetic dog. Seeing him here, so helpless beneath her grip makes Myla wonder what exactly she has been so afraid of.

“So, I feel everything. I feel the places you are, and I feel the places you are not. I feel the places I wish you were. And I can only wonder if those are feelings you gave me. I long to feel them and know they are mine.” Her lips meet his, teeth grazing his plump bottom lip and allowing his tongue to explore her mouth, slowly and lazily. His lips move from hers to her chin and downward to her collarbone where he pelts warm, venomous kisses. A thrill surges through her body, an alarming sensation which she knows is her nervous system coordinated with his. Myla tries desperately to separate her mental response from the physical, allowing him to be convince. If she can not own her body, she will try to own her mind.

This endeavor grows increasingly challenging as his hands trail down her, finding a hold on the back of her thighs and moving her body against the hardening in his pants. Myla lets out a subtle moan, one that is not lost on the devil beneath her.

“Good, my Ruthless Queen,” he coos in her ear, praising her response, words which exhilarate and evoke a satisfied melt from her. “I wonder what you would say if I took you to bed now.” He moves a hand to her exposed thigh, inching upwards, closer and closer to that sacred space which feels hungry for his touch.

“Vesperian,” she moans into his neck, angry at herself for feeling so wildly out of control and so deeply intoxicated by the monster who murdered her husband. Yet, the euphoric sensations pulsating through her body begs her not to stop his conquest. His fingers nearly graze their target, prompting a desperate gasp when the door of the throne room slams shut.

Myla flinches, something jolting her from the spell, and she stands, blue eyes swelling with regret when they fall upon the furious gaze of Bryar.

Foolish . She chides herself. A queen’s guard is rarely far away; of course he was going to find her. Myla feels a shiver of guilt wash over her.

“Bryar—”

“Bryar?” The Blood Stealer stands, his eyes narrowing in on the space between the captain and his queen. Myla fears the raw energy flowing there may be detectable by Vesperian, and she quickly corrects her tone.

“Captain Monroe, you approach me unannounced?”

Bryar’s jaw grinds as though he is chewing his words before spitting them out. “Is that not my job, Your Grace? To protect you?”

Vesperian laughs, a threatening hand landing on Myla’s shoulder. “ Ah , the overzealous guard who would not let me in your room.”

Myla attempts to match his casual demeanor, laughing mockingly with him. “It is. Troublesome, really. He has nightmares, I hear, from when you killed that idiot I called a husband.” Shame infiltrates her very essence, and averting her gaze, she silently asks Bryar’s forgiveness. If only he already knew what was concealed in Vesperian’s pocket.

Judging by the shadowed look on his face, Bryar is teetering on the edge of questioning the ruse himself. Is that not what she wanted? For everyone to believe she had surrendered to the power of Vesperian? If he is convinced, should not the Blood Stealer himself be?

But he is not.

Suspicion breeds rapidly as the Blood Stealer takes stock of it all; the way the tiles crack beneath Bryar’s heating feet and the inferno boiling at his fingertips, which cause the handle of his axe to grow red-hot. The weapon wilts like a flower before Bryar even seems to notice the way his rage builds upon itself, bringing destruction of everything, including her plan.

Vesperian’s angry, snake like eyes dart to her. Sweet features washed away in a rush of pale, and the darkness she had exuded replaced with what truly lies beneath: fear.

So, he feasts.

“Tell me, Myla . . . my stupid queen. Did you intend on marrying me and then letting that vermin between your legs behind my back?”

Myla trembles and attempts a recovery. “Stop with your nonsense, Vesperian. Your jealousy is ruining my mood.” If he was not already angry, her tone may have been convincing, but a black wraith begins to form at his hands, giving Myla the sick feeling she has just failed. He allows the otherworldly creature to slither around his hand and wrist like a pet snake, and something about his being shifts from devilishly handsome to absolutely terrifying.

Here is the creature who slaughtered Caius.

His eyes burn a deep crimson, a blood thirst amassing deep within as he anticipates his next kill.

“If my suspicion is nonsense as you say,” he goads, “then prove it, and I will give you this.” He pulls the vial from his pocket, its brilliant blue catching in the daylight through the tall arched windows in a vast contrast to the black swirling at its base. It shines like a beacon calling to her. “The captain’s life for your cure.” Vesperian presents his ultimatum like a prize, his ivory teeth flashing a smile coated in mockery. The wraith grows larger, a swirling demon summoned by the Blood Stealer to cut Bryar’s throat, just as it cut Caius’s. Pressure constricts Myla’s throat as if an invisible being grapples at her, silencing any protests.

Realization washes over Bryar, and he wears an odd look. Defeat? No. Resolve. Flames engulf his fists as he stands partially crouched, ready to meet the Gods in a shower of black and flames.

He will sacrifice himself for my cure . . .

“Killing you myself would be too quick,” Vesperian hums as he seats himself in Myla’s throne instead of his own. Margot and Matteo sit on either side of him, panting hungrily. No doubt anticipating their next meals. “I am in the mood for a show.” He pats his lap, summoning Myla to sit. A test. “Come, my Ruthless Queen. We shall watch my loyal men battle yours. An experiment. Who is stronger?” It is not an experiment. It is a threat.

Myla does as he instructs, the pounding in her chest dulling every other sense and she watches as six of Vesperian’s soldiers lull from the shadows.

He can kill them easily . . . if he wants to, she comforts herself, watching Bryar straighten and rolls his shoulders, ready to slaughter. He holds a borrowed sword now, taken from one of his men, his axe lays distorted on the ground next to him.

He does not look her way, though her eyes are fixed only on him, and Vesperian’s on her.

The six Seam warriors close around Bryar slowly at first. Slow enough that with every step, their calf-length chainmail sounds like gentle chimes in the wind. The crimson of their tunics stands out against Bryar’s pure black ensemble, but his is the only coherent expression. His green eyes dart from one foe to the next, assessing which to lunge at first.

He makes his choice and the battle ensues. It is mayhem. The way lifeless soldiers lunge and are met with a deafening ring of metal. Bryar’s arms heave overhead and with an angry snarl, he lowers his blade into the undefended back of an opponent. There is a crack, followed by a short, agonizing scream as the soldier is flayed open from behind.

Myla winces as bone shatters and blood gushes in rivers from the body, creating a slippery surface beneath Bryar’s boots. He dislodges the blade from the man’s spine in time to parry an attack from another soldier. It is a flash of steel and blood.

To Vesperian, it becomes obvious rather quickly that his men are no match for her lethally-trained captain.

So, he pushes Myla off his lap and stands, urging another rush of soldiers to join the fight. Myla watches, wanting nothing more than to see him summon his flames and melt their foes. But she knows he will do no such thing.

Though he puts up a fight for the sake of convincing Vesperian, he plans to die for her. Myla knows what he looks like when he is slowly conceding a battle. Their years of training together amounted to a time when she could not best him. But from time to time, he would let her win. Just as he begins to allow them to win.

One soldier, whose face she can not see behind his black helmet, swings a heavy broad sword just slowly enough that Bryar should catch it. In every other circumstance, he would.

This time, he does not. It slices into his shoulder. And as a second flash of blades threaten to fall on him, he responds too slowly.

He wants her to remain silent, to let him fall on the sword for her, and to claim her cure. That is his goal.

Perhaps a stronger queen would allow it. The solution to her problem could cost only one life.

But to her, it is a life too dear.

Myla feels a shriek explode from her lungs, and as quickly as it began, her plot to defeat the Blood Stealer ends, replaced with a desperate need to stop the fall of the blade, even if her ruse is revealed.

The moment seems to pass in miserable slow motion. Though it is early in the day, night descends upon the throne room. The power of the Blood Stealer summoning darkness itself, black particles falling from the night sky to shroud them in an inky fog. The darkness sucked from every shadow within the palace walls, collecting there in the throne room. Guards spill into the throne room, wearing panicked and helpless expressions and shouts from somewhere beyond sound an alarm, all within the palace instantly alerted to the impending disaster. The Blood Stealer’s wolves leap at an unsuspecting guard and sink their beastly teeth into his throat, silencing a gargled cry. They proceed to feast on the warm flesh of the guard.

“The Queen and the Blood Stealer will battle.” “Send help.” “Run.” Words bleed together. Courtiers with minor magic seem to flee while those with major magic rush in, all halting behind Bryar, a standstill before them pausing any advancements.

Myla begs her magic forth, and yet something, like a cork blocking her supply, stops its rise. Her veins feel flaccid, and her screams are empty, no rage magic following. It feels as though now, when she needs them most, the Gods abandon her.

A ringing douses out all other sounds save that of Vesperian’s laughs. Ringing and a demon’s laugh is all she hears. This is the same way she responded when he came to kill her husband, panic dousing the fire of her magic. Somewhere between the tears and the wraith’s swirling vortex, she sees the faces of her court, of Elsa, and of Bryar, now with a pile of corpses at his feet. Blood spills from his arm and he watches her with pleading eyes, though he knows his plan has also failed.

Her father pushes between them, eyes wide with something that should be fear but is not. He wants me to die, so he can have my throne.

Callum, Elsa, and Rhyland now group together, each holding a weapon to stave off attacks as they come. They are screaming something, those words falling on deaf ears. She can not even hear the way her soldiers now clash against the Blood Stealer and blood flows through her throne room like an undammed river. Sprays of it pelt the walls and the books and even herself. Wake up. She urges herself, clenching her eyes shut and visualizing the birth of her magic. But something else penetrates her mind’s eye. An orb in the womb of the earth. Small and flickering. Something holds it in place, veins of magic like the roots of a tree. “It is time to wake up,” she whispers, her eyes opening to see confusion written on the face of the Blood Stealer. His brow furrows and then arches in an annoyed roll of his eyes.

“So, it is to be the captain and the queen. Lovers dying pitiful deaths today.” His words are hissed, a contortion of his regular voice, and Myla wonders who speaks now, he or the wraith. Maverick’s eyes widen as he glances from Myla to Bryar, a sense of realization washing his features, changing quickly from shock to rage. Perhaps he is thinking back to the evening his daughter confessed she was no longer a virgin, complicating her betrothal to the king. Myla feels a tinge of deep-seated betrayal and anger growing into something nastier. In this moment, of everything that could bring anger upon him, that is what does it.

Echoes of her friend’s words pierce the veil which seems to deafen her, and she barely makes out Elsa’s words: “Use all of your magic.”

And just like that, the magic roots suspending that orb in her womb retreat, dissipating into her veins, her entire body flashing, like a volt of energy has flared from within. The sensation is sickening as the child in her womb quickens, no longer hanging in a time continuum, waiting to be. Myla once more reaches within her depths, calling upon light, and righteous rage.

The Blood Stealer repositions at this, his gnarled hands lunge backward, about to lose the wraith on her, when her voice cracks, a booming, thunderous command. A primal scream boiling within her throat and flooding beyond into something terrible. Rubble from the ceiling shakes loose, cracking down upon them, and her body is engulfed in a blinding flash of light which launches in sharp fragments toward Vesperian.

In a trained, fluid motion, he disintegrates into a million black wisps, joining with the wraith in a whirlpool of abysmal shadow and chaos, reappearing behind her. Something hard slams into her back, knocking the wind out of her and catapulting her body several feet away. The cold tile smacks into her cheek and somewhere beneath the screams and shouts, Myla hears gasps as well, followed at once by the shuddering of summoned magic in mass amounts. The atmosphere begins to crumble beneath the pressure of the conjuring.

Assertive, Bryar bellows orders to his knights and somewhere in her periphery, she watches as rows of blue surround her at his command. “ Protect the queen!” A futile effort, she is certain.

Myla pushes herself to her feet, turning in time to see her council and various courtiers forming a wall with their bodies, hands extended as flashes of magic overpower the senses. Bricks are compelled to wiggle loose from the walls as one wielder’s mind causes a chaotic flurry of heavy and sharp objects to hurdle in the Blood Stealer’s direction. Another conjures clairvoyant magic to anticipate Vesperian’s next moves, intercepting a teleportation in Myla’s direction.

It is a violent and catastrophic cacophony, disorder laying waste to the usually regal throne room. Books of all size and variant colors tumble from different heights, streaking the black veil with vibrancy as they are used as weapons, thrown to and fro at their targets. Myla is overwhelmed with urgency to be in all places at once. Before her, Bryar is in a half-kneeling position. His cloak is singed and in tatters and a soot collects on his already black armor as fire magic rages from his being in the direction of two dozen of Vesperian’s dazed soldiers. Their bodies sear like cold meat to a hot iron. The screams are sickening, even more so than the stench.

Elsa crouches over the convulsing body of a courtier, a young man with fair hair. His identity is not easily detectable as a gaping wound has split his face in half. Elsa’s skin is tinted a healer’s lavender. In spite of the chaos around her, she stays calm, trying to heal the man seizing upon her lap, no doubt begging for his life. Myla cringes, knowing it is futile. Soldiers cloaked in the Queen’s Blue spill in from every direction, blades, and magic flashing furiously.

The greatest need lies at the feet of the Blood Stealer. Carnage piled beneath and behind him as he moves with a swiftness unmatched by any. Blood sprays from the helpless bodies of his victims, caught off guard as they slash at the air before him where he stood, only to be assaulted by him from behind. His methods are the strategy of a coward, though in efficiency, she can not argue he has the upper hand.

Vesperian faces away from her, caught in the crossfire of Lord Heron and one of Bryar’s assassins’ magic. It is ripples of blue, interrupted by a violent fire which blasts a small crater into the tile flooring. Myla catches her breath, thinking for a moment he may be subdued as she loses sight of him in the mayhem.

The black of he and his wraith appear to constrict inward until there is nothing left, and all at once, the black is ejected. Sharp spears of inky mist pivot in every direction, lodging themselves in a dozen victims before dissolving and recovering mere inches before Myla in the shape of a man once more.

Trembling with a violent flush of power, Myla’s magic seethes to the surface, deadly rays ready to be loosed, when Vesperian reaches out with a gloved hand, as cold as frost, and seizes her throat. His eyes flash a look of finality. His free hand lifts to eye level now and the wraith condenses into a single swirling orb, threatening to reach out and impale her.

“You could have had it all, my Ruthless Raven Queen.” His words are a mere echo of a human, carrying more of his demon’s voice as he delivers her final rites, accompanied by the mournful and threatening howls of Margot and Matteo. “I shall henceforth consider this the greatest tragedy; to see a masterpiece such as yourself lose herself and sacrifice her greatness, for the likes of her captain.”

His hand tightens and a fog threatens to claim her mind. There is movement, flashes of light, billowing smoke, and the heat of flames. The ground trembles and her logical brain tells her that her court and Council wage valiantly behind her, though fear within whispers. It is the demons below. They are waiting to welcome you into their belly. Somewhere, Myla senses sound—shouting, but nothing audible reaches her ears, which seem to be weighted in a dark magic, urging her to surrender. A foul force binds her arms to her side, unable to conjure her magic and with her throat constricted, she can not call upon the voice of the Gods to channel through her.

“Be sure to tell that joke of a husband hello when you see him,” Vesperian whispers, toying with the shape of the wraith between his fingers. “It would be wise to leave out the part where you are fucking the guard who let him die.”

Fury builds, a will to defy all, to defy the vile creature before her, to defy her acceptance of death, and to defy the dark Gods themselves.

Most importantly, to defy that she has anything to apologize to any man for.

Searing heat gathers at her throat where the Gods’ voices batter and, in spite of the tension between Vesperian’s fist and her neck, Myla’s mouth falls open. A crack of thunder, an ominous cry of a thousand angry voices demand her release.

From the core of her lungs, the Gods command fear and submission of every living thing across Myrnith. Even the Blood Stealer himself is flung backward briefly, the wraith retreating within him. A horrified look is quickly replaced by shock and something sadistic: thrill.

Vesperian moves to stand, but in ancient tongue, a young female from within the tangled chaos of the crowd compels the black chandelier overhead to snap loose of the chains suspending it. The Blood Stealer lurches backward, barely missing the sharp spikes of iron, which instead shriek violently on the tile. It is enough of a distraction for Myla to feel herself yanked into the dark corridor behind the thrones.

“Run!” Bryar demands, his hand tight on her arm. Myla glances backward to see an entirely different beast of fury forming around Vesperian. The wraith contorts, angry to be defied. Within the swirling of the blackness, visions wash in and out, opaque against the dark magic. Sight of destruction and death, the screams of his victims replaying, fuel for the monster as it grows larger and larger, intending to consume every being in its wake.

“Bryar, no!” Myla pleads, trying to jerk her arm free of his iron grasp. “Look!”

Blue chunks of ceiling fall, crushing and crippling those beneath it. A row of Council members stand shoulder to shoulder, their arms extended creating a wall of energy, flame, and any other power they can call upon to hold off Vesperian. She knows every name, every face. She can see them clearly and hear their voices as they swear oaths to her. Oaths to honor, to serve, to protect. Myla realizes they are merely stalling him for her escape. Anyone in that throne room is surely damned, any remaining are there of their own free will, a sacrifice for her life.

At the furthest end of the throne room, Callum, Rhyland, and Elsa stand together still. Elsa’s eyes meet hers and she mouths one word: “Go.”

Tears swell in her eyes as Bryar, visibly distraught, drags her by the waist toward the dungeons.

“Stop fighting me,” Bryar growls angrily, yanking her into an embrasure alcove. “I swear to the Gods, I will knock you senseless and carry you out of here myself if I have to, Myla!”

“They are dying!” she sobs, trying to turn back. Frantically and out of breath, she pleads and shrieks. “Elsa is in there, Bryar! Elsa and Rhyland and Callum—” Panic threatens to claim her being as visions of her friends sliced in half tease her imagination.

“Fuck, Myla! Do not let them die in vain then!” It is not a request. As the sound of mayhem and murder pierce the air, accompanied by the shaking of the ground beneath them, Myla is thrown over Bryar’s shoulder and carried out of the palace.