Page 15 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)

Wouldn’t want to make any martyrs now, would we?

Val

A calm breath works through my lungs, deep and slow. Not shuddering at all. Not even the slightest. There’s no profound anger burning up my throat. None.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself, attempting to fool my emotions back into some semblance of composure. Stoic. Calculated.

The urge to punch a wall is shamefully strong. Get lost in physical pain. So effective.

Instead, I remove my top hat—doing nothing but increasing the sweat building on my hairline—and tuck it under my arm.

The sound of mine and Alaric’s purposeful strides echo in the dark, dank corridors beneath The Citadel, the scent of rot and loam mixing into a sickening concoction. The only light comes from our singular handheld gas lamp. Unnecessary for me, but needed for my friend.

This does not have to be another Tabitha situation. I repeat the statement in my mind over and over like a mantra. I am not going to needlessly rage.

Deos . Control has been simply nonexistent lately.

Tabitha should have been a wonderful outlet for letting loose all my frustrations.

A clean slate for my patience so to speak.

Where I thought that would be the end of my months-long slow spiral, it only tamed its downward descent for a short amount of time.

Maybe Tabitha wasn’t really a problem.

Though I am (mostly) adept at keeping it in check, my temper has always been a beast all its own when let loose.

But being pulled away from the festivities—particularly, from dancing with my wife who is finally beginning to offer genuine smiles and share that sparkling personality with me—is eating at my restraint.

Especially when I promised her I wouldn’t leave her side.

Delaney’s indignation from me selecting her gown for tonight and making it the only option available has withered away between the time we began our breakfast and when I collected her from her rooms wearing that gown.

So beautiful I thought I might simply choke on the image of her.

Unreal.

On Mallin’s urging, instead of demanding we share a room in The Citadel—like I had absolutely planned—I have offered an olive branch to my wife. The study in our apartments has been converted to a bedroom just for her. To have her space and whatnot. Complete with an ensuite.

Looks like we aren’t the first Lord and Lady to not be sharing a room.

I was filled with utter glee when she stomped across the hall to throw her panties in my face.

I could have stopped them. Snatched them right out of the air with my quick reflexes.

But marriage is all about compromises, or so I’ve heard, and I knew it would be far more satisfying for my wife to watch them hit me in the face.

She very much enjoyed what was happening between us. Me ordering her around. Voicing my desire while she fought me on all of it .

Such a little menace.

Unfortunately, I fear that until Delaney fully accepts me, this unhinged rampage devouring my fucking soul will continue, and the resulting body count could potentially be high.

Perhaps I should be more insistent in my efforts, Mallin’s advice aside.

I have got to pull it together. Current times are far too crucial for me to fall apart now.

Death saturating the walls down here calls to me. It sings a ghostly wail, wraps icy claws around my skin, begging me to breathe life and ease its emptiness.

“Val,” Alaric whispers, hurrying his stride to match my own. “Wait!”

Senses heightened in my agitation, the ripple of air from his raising arm has me turning on the spot, pinning him with a death glare and pointing a dagger at his throat.

Smart of me, holding the insight to not indulge in alcohol tonight.

Apparently my instincts need to be peak and spirits dampen them far too greatly.

“Touch me, gloved hand or not, and I will scoop your fucking eyeballs from their sockets and shove them down your throat on a skewer.”

Alaric’s gift is a particularly nasty one. A dangerous man: a silent, subtle knife.

One single touch from Alaric’s skin congeals blood cells into an incurable, malignant tumor. Unless there’s a filter near at the time of inception to counteract his gift. Hard to come by.

Poor thing, only able to fuck a person if they’re a filter and can nullify his magic. Or if he’s comfortable with knowing that they will die, prolonged and painful .

Lucky for Alaric (among others), I was able to convince Parliament to not bond him to a wife. Now he may continue to wreak havoc on unsuspecting bodies at will. No, Parliament wants their little deadly lapdog on a nice, long leash.

A leash that’s firmly in my own grasp.

Alaric raises his hands in surrender, glowering at me. “Need I remind you, Val, I am not the reason for your bad mood.”

“All the same.”

Stalking resumes, headed towards the long forgotten cellars hidden behind walls of debris from a collapse many, many Lords ago. The Noctua sector of S uredeis has been using them to smuggle, store, interrogate, torture, and imprison for as long as the resistance has existed.

“Did he say anything before he slit his throat?” I demand, words clipped, dropping my top hat to shed my long, sweeping tailcoat, folding it neatly. Pure idiocy, thinking killing himself will make any difference. Like I won’t just bring him right back.

Alaric swipes a hand back across his white blonde hair, the long scar across his cheek appearing deeper in the haunting shadows.

“No. As soon as he was found, he offed himself. Best guess is that he slipped in with all the performers for tonight’s celebration.

Didn’t make it far though. Blair’s little creatures read him in the grand hall and she found me. ”

“Spy?”

“I would assume so. If not, that’s the most abysmal assassin I’ve ever seen.

Besides, Parliament won’t make a move, not for a while.

You’ve pulled this off spectacularly. Public opinion on Parliament would plummet if anything happened to you or Delaney right now.

There would be riots. You’re both darlings within Noctua. ”

Ignoring the subtle jab, I offer Alaric a smug grin. He’s right. Other than my personal relationship with my wife, everything has gone positively swimmingly. “Yes. Wouldn’t want to make any martyrs now, would we?”

“Certainly not, my Lord.”

I’ve heard the whispers about my marriage, my wife, in this short time back in the city. How fortunate that fate brought us together, freeing a young woman from the prison built for her by her own parents. Our union a delightful outcome from all the tragedy that has befallen us.

A sign of hope in a failing faction. A failing world.

My father’s success swaying a former prejudice for necromancy into reverence in only a decade is remarkable.

His political scheming was something to be desired.

One of many vital lessons I learned from him: Time your truths carefully, and then make them known loudly, publicly, and with the tenderest of intentions.

The reveal of Delaney and her necromancy is so similar to how my father brought me and mine into light.

Parliament tried to rewrite the narrative with me. Bringing me into the fold of their misdeeds. A puppet for them to control. I’ve played my part well.

I expect my meeting with Parliament to be much the same as my father’s about me all those years ago—when Llewellyn ven’Sol presented his bastard necromancer son after he ascended to a prominent position. Defending his actions of secrecy in the past as a loving father concerned for his son.

“Go back to the ballroom,” I instruct Alaric.

“Keep an extra eye on Delaney.” Pageantry.

Nothing but loud, smokescreen pageantry.

I had half a mind to refuse the party, but appearances must be kept.

They are, just as I told Delaney, important.

“And if Roarke gets anywhere near my wife, do me a favor. Fucking kill him.”

Alaric laughs .

I glare at him in the low gas lamp light. “I fail to see what’s funny.”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“Surely you know that I can’t kill a celebrated noble in front of every posh prick in Noctua. ”

“Why?”

“Val,” he chides.

Roarke should count himself lucky, that I haven’t killed him yet. Him and his despicable father. That whole family—their existence is unsettling.

But their retribution is coming.

“Then lure him away and do it in private. On second thought, do that anyway. No need to wait for him to provoke me, as we all know he will.” That would certainly be a positive spin on tonight. I despise that man.

“You know you’d rather kill him yourself.” Alaric laughs and retreats back to the party upstairs.

Fair enough. I absolutely would rather shed his blood with my own hand.

The remainder of my clothing is shed, leaving only my underwear. It’s highly doubtful that Delaney will get close enough tonight to smell magic on them. An absolute shame.

A preventative capsule of antiletum is popped into my mouth. I crunch it between my teeth, the taste of ash, earth, and something distinctly astringent exploding across my tongue. Disgust contorts my face as I swallow.

Can’t have Delaney noticing patches of dead skin across my body.

There’s no telling where my price would present itself.

And waiting until after to apply a balm takes far too long to reverse the magical necrosis.

The ingested antiletum will also eliminate the smell of magic that would emanate from my pores.

Too bad antiletum is no longer enough to restore balance within the Ellden clocks.

Eagerness to use my necromancy again flares, as much as I hate to break my oath of magical abstinence, to not use it until Delaney is ready for us to finally do so together—as we are now meant to.

Terrible the circumstances behind that bond may be, there’s no one else in this world I would rather be tied to.

Though I will have to go and feed the Heartstone somewhere within my journey to meet Parliament now.