Page 10 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

FANGS AND FIRELIGHT

“ G et up, Skye,” Evan urges, tightening his grip on my shoulders.

A shudder wracks my body as I dry heave again.

My head pounds like something is trying to break free.

I clench my eyes and my fists, taking a deep breath of the slightly rancid air and holding it.

The stench of the filthy river is heavy here in the Bottoms, mixing with the pollution of the various factories and the nearby stockyards.

Why anyone, anywhere, would make this into a party spot, I’ll never understand.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, even as my arms shake so hard I almost face plant on the concrete.

“No, you’re not,” Evan says.

It’s so matter-of-fact that I want to laugh.

There’s no force behind it, just a calm observation, one that I can’t deny no matter how much I want to.

I’m not okay, but worse I don’t know what happened to me.

Did Nico drug me? Was it in the smoke in his office?

It had to be. Nothing else makes sense .

“That fucker. I’m going to kill him,” I growl, pushing myself to my feet.

I wobble unsteadily, and Evan grabs onto my shoulders, but the world stills, staying where it should. Nothing tilts or rocks in a way that it’s not supposed to, thankfully. I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead and look around.

No one is paying any particular attention to us.

I’m sure to them I look like another girl who couldn’t handle her booze.

I also know that if Evan wasn’t here, more than one of the men hanging around the entrance would be all over me, seeking escape in empty, momentary pleasure.

Whether I consented or not. Welcome to the Bottoms.

Gratitude fills my chest as I turn my attention to Evan. He’s solidly himself. I stare at him for a moment, making sure. He stays himself. Good. Whatever drugged me seems to be passing out of my system.

“Don’t do it,” Evan says, gripping my arm as I turn toward the door.

“He did this,” I say, glaring over my shoulder.

“No,” he says.

Once again, it’s simple and matter-of-fact. Not an argument or even a disagreement, just a statement of what is.

“Then who, Evan? I didn’t drink anything. I didn’t take anything. Who?”

Evan frowns, and he looks… sad.

“I heard something,” he says, his frown deepening, “might help.”

“Help?”

“Milo,” he says. “He was seen over at the stockyards. ”

“Huh? How did you hear that? And why there? No one goes there. Hasn’t in years. KC isn’t a cattle town anymore, Evan.”

“I know,” Evan says. “But…be careful, okay? It sounds…bad.”

“Bad? You think?” I start to say more, to be even more of an ass to this guy who has done nothing but try to help, but the look on his face stops me.

It’s not anger, which would be justified, or even sadness.

Any of those would make sense. Instead, I see regret on his face—regret for what I don’t know, but it stops my mouth before any words come out.

“Get help, Skye,” he says. “Please.”

My smart retorts die on my tongue, tasting like stale smoke. I’ve got a hundred reasons to never go to the Stockyards. But if Evan’s face is a warning, then Milo’s text is a command, one I have no choice but to obey.

A sharp tang of rust and smoke fills the wind picking up near the old stockyards.

The brick buildings loom like old ghosts, their broken windows blinking at me from the shadows.

This part of the Bottoms is long abandoned and quiet.

Once Kansas City was a cattle hub, decades ago, and though the cattle business continues, it doesn’t use most of the infrastructure that was built up here to support it.

In the distance a train horn groans low and long.

The sound echoes off rusted metal and concrete ruins.

Dilapidated pens framed by rusted and twisted steel fencing blocks out squares of space leading into the old auction houses that are massive concrete and stone buildings with broken windows that remind me of empty eyes staring.

I move slower than I’d like. As much as I want to rush and find Milo, my body feels wrong—like it’s not entirely mine, like my skin might tear if I stretch too far.

I keep going because Milo might be here.

Or might have been. And if this is connected to what happened to me at the bar, or to his message, I need to know.

I round the corner near the collapsed cattle chutes and see him.

“Milo!” I call, relief and panic punching through me like a drumbeat. He’s facing away, walking deeper into the alley behind the sorting pens. He’s limping and something about the angle of his head makes my stomach twist. “Milo, wait!”

He doesn’t pause or turn.

I break into a jog, heart slamming harder with every step. The moment I hit the narrow pass between two buildings, my stomach drops. Fear clasps my heart in an icy grip, making it hard to breathe.

Figures emerge from the shadows—silent and smooth, like knives sliding free from sheaths. One steps between me and Milo’s retreating shape. I sense more than see two more fall in behind me. A fourth drops soundlessly from a rusted-over fire escape.

I stumble back, instinct screaming.

“She came,” one of them says, voice dry as parchment and twice as brittle.

“The Queen’s pet,” another murmurs, circling .

My voice catches in my throat. I spin, but they’re everywhere now. Trapping me. Herding me.

“What the hell do you want?” I try to snarl, but my voice wavers. The air feels thick—like oil, like shadow.

“You don’t know yet?” one says, amused. “Poor little Dreamling.”

Dreamling. What? What the fuck is this?

“She sings in her sleep,” another whispers, and their words slither inside my skull, echoing in a voice not their own. “The Dream opens to her. It wants her.”

“She’s not ready,” says the first. “But the Queen is tired of waiting.”

One of them raises a hand. The shadows pool around his feet like ink, writhing upward.

I bolt. Not a plan, just survival.

I don’t make it far. A blow clips me behind the knee and I fall hard, scraping skin and bone on the cracked concrete. An ice cold hand grabs my ankle. I scream, kicking wildly. Something glimmers at the edge of my vision—and everything explodes into motion.

A blur of movement. A low, feral growl.

I don’t wait to understand, scrambling away on all fours. Growls, shouts, the wet smack of flesh striking flesh, then a howl of agony that scrapes the inside of my bones.

I reach the rusted, decaying wall of the building, turning to keep moving away when I see.

Corvin .

He hits one of the vampires like a wrecking ball—fast, brutal, silent. There’s no warning. No ceremony. Just blood and fury.

The vampire’s head snaps back, then twists violently sideways with a crunch I hear over my own frantic heartbeat. Its body crumples like a marionette with cut strings.

The others react, too slow. Corvin is already on the next one. He doesn’t fight like a man. He fights like a storm—precise, terrible. His eyes flash in the dark. The second vampire screams as claws—yes, claws —rip through flesh.

A blade flashes—silver-edged glinting in the moonlight—and sinks into Corvin’s side. He hisses in pain, staggering back. Blood—black and slick—pours down his shirt. My chest seizes.

“Run,” he snarls at me, voice raw and dark with something not human.

“But—”

“ Run. ”

I scramble to my feet, heart breaking, lungs burning, and run.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to do.

The one thing I’m good at. But even as my feet pound on the concrete, the sound of his pain, his blood, drowns out the noise of my escape.

It is the sound of my mother dying, and Milo crying, and a ghost of a voice that whispers, “Don’t run. ”

Behind me are animalistic growls, hisses, and incongruently…curses. When I reach the end of the alley, I don’t slow, but look over my shoulder. The two vampires are circling Corvin who is weaving, one hand pressed to his side.

“The Queen sends regards Corvin,” one of his opponents says in their hissing voice that causes a shiver to race down my spine .

The shapes blur, attacking. Sounds—horrifying sounds—flesh tearing, bones snapping. Corvin growls, anger, no rage, but he’s wounded and outnumbered.

Stupid. Don’t stop. Don’t be stupid.

But I do.

He’s fighting for me. Trying to save me, and he’s in trouble. I don’t know what I can do, but I feel like I must. What kind of person am I if I leave him—wounded, facing two… whatever-the-fuck-they-are, alone?

That’s not who I am. I refuse to be that person.

I snatch a broken piece of rebar from the ground—more instinct than strategy—and, whirling, charge back down the alley.

Corvin is on one knee, blood dripping steadily from the gash in his side.

The two vampires circle him like jackals, taunting, savoring the moment.

One licks his fingers, stained with dark fluid— Corvin’s blood.

A jolt of rage surges, burning away the last vestiges of fear and the reasons why I should be doing anything but being true to myself.

“The Queen is disappointed in you, Corvin,” one of them says, voice smooth and vile.

Corvin doesn’t answer. He sways but doesn’t fall.

I grip the rebar tighter. I don’t have a plan. I’m not a fighter, but I have to do something . Even if it kills me. I charge.

One of them hears me at the last second, half-turning with a sneer.

“Little mortal thinks she’s brave?— ”

I swing with everything I have, putting the weight of my body behind the rusted metal. The sound when it hits his temple is sickening—a dull, smushing crack, like rotten wood splitting. He stumbles sideways, hissing.

The other one lunges. Too fast. Too close.

I twist, try to backpedal, but I’m too slow. Cold fingers rake my jacket, tearing it open. He grabs a fistful of my shirt and jerks me forward, his fangs bared and glinting.

Then the world shifts.

A low hum fills the air, vibrating deep in my bones. Like a guitar string drawn tight and plucked echoing into my soul.