Page 21 of Blood Court (Cursed Darkness #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DATHAN

We follow Lysithea through the door of the cage and land approximately two feet from her bed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I growl. “This is insane!”

Lysithea stumbles, but I catch her before she can fall. The memory of her fear is a ghost on my tongue, a bitter aftertaste I don’t think I’ll ever lose. I just walked through her personal hell, and it’s left a fucking mark on my soul.

“We need to sleep,” she murmurs, her voice raw.

Verik stalks over to the wrecked bed. “Sleep is for the weak.” He says it, but his movements are heavy, exhausted.

Evren is already pulling a blanket from a cupboard, his movements silent and efficient. He wraps it around Lysithea’s shoulders, his ice-blue eyes never leaving her face. He just watched his magic strangle her. We’ve all been forced to hurt her in one way or another.

The book appears on the desk. It doesn’t open. It just sits there, its single eye a malevolent, judging presence. It’s waiting.

“It wants us to go after the Warden,” I say, the words feeling like gravel in my mouth. My gaze is fixed on Lysithea. She looks so fucking fragile, but I know she isn’t. I just felt the steel in her soul.

“Then we go,” Verik says, his voice a low growl of promise.

“But first, we rest. And we plan how to tear this whole fucking system down, one brick at a time.” He looks at me, a new understanding in his hellfire eyes.

We all saw a piece of hell today. And we’re all still standing. Stronger. More dangerous.

A queen and her monsters. The game is far from over, in fact, it’s only just beginning.

“Two trials down, two to go,” I murmur. “Maybe going after the Warden isn’t in the playbook yet. Maybe we have to wait. We are being put to the test for a reason.”

The book slams open.

The Nightmare Sovereign is wise.

“Oh, fuck off.” I roll my eyes. “Don’t start pretending you like me.”

The book’s script bleeds across the page. Liking has nothing to do with it. You understand the rules of the game.

“What rules?” Verik snarls, taking a step towards the desk.

The ones you are just beginning to learn.

The book slams shut. Fucking prick. It loves its dramatic exits.

I look at Lysithea. She’s wrapped up, her violet eyes heavy with exhaustion, but there’s a hard glint in them that wasn’t there before. The trials tested us. They forged us. The memory of her terror is a brand on my soul, a constant reminder of what she endured. What we’re fighting for.

“It’s right,” she says, her voice a low murmur. “This is a game. And it’s teaching us how to play.” She sways on her feet. Evren steadies her, his hand on her arm.

“We play tomorrow,” I say, my voice rough. “Tonight, we shower and sleep.”

No one argues. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving a bone-deep weariness in its place.

“And eat,” Verik growls.

“Go and find food to bring back to the room,” I order him.

He growls but doesn’t resist. He strides off, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

Evren is already turning the shower on as Lysithea pulls Evren’s shirt off.

Her naked body fires up mine, and I want to ravage her again.

Coming in both her pussy and her arse was an event I hope to replay, over and over again.

I strip off and lead her to the shower. She smiles wearily as I help her in and follow.

The water is hot, nearly scalding. It sluices over us, washing away the grime and the chill from the cage.

Lysithea leans back against my chest, her body a dead weight of pure exhaustion.

I wrap my arms around her, my hands splayed across her stomach, guarding her.

The memory of her terror is a permanent stain on my soul. A part of me now.

She turns in my arms, her violet eyes finding mine in the steam.

There’s no fear in them. Just a deep, aching trust. She takes the soap, her small hands surprisingly strong as she washes the blood and dirt from my skin.

It’s a quiet, intimate act that feels more real than any of the magic we wield.

I wash her hair, my fingers gentle as I work the lather through the long white strands.

We don’t speak. There are no words for what we just went through.

When we’re clean, I carry her from the bathroom. Verik is back, a tray laden with food sitting on the floor by the bed. He’s already devouring a piece of sandwich like an animal. Evren quickly moves to the shower, eager to be clean and back with our queen.

We eat in a tense, exhausted silence. A pack of monsters licking their wounds.

Lysithea falls asleep halfway through a bite of sandwich, her head lolling against my shoulder.

I take the plate from her lap and set it aside.

I lie down, pulling her with me, her back pressed against my chest. Her shield.

Verik takes his turn cleaning up and then returns to guard her.

Evren moves to a corner, a pillar of ice and shadow.

We form a perimeter around her. The memory of her fear is a cold knot in my gut.

I will kill anyone who ever makes her feel that way again.

I close my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I use the power I was given at birth to cause destruction to the creature that hurt her so badly.

I drift into the abyss, the place where nightmares are born, reaching out, feeling for Clara.

The abyss welcomes me like an old friend.

A place of pure potential, of unformed fears waiting for a master.

The thread of Lysithea’s memory is a burning cord in the darkness. I follow it, a predator on the hunt.

I find her easily. A festering knot of cruelty and self-righteousness in the sea of unformed terror. She’s dreaming a mundane, pathetic dream of power over children in a drab, grey room. The same room from the trials, from Lysithea’s memory.

I slip into the dream and hijack it. I become the developer of her personal hell.

The grey walls bleed black. The scent of bleach turns to the coppery tang of old blood.

The children in her dream, the ones she was tormenting, turn to face her.

Their eyes are empty sockets, their mouths stitched shut with black thread.

Her dream-self falters, a flicker of confusion turning to a spark of fear. It’s a pathetic, weak flavour, but it’s a start. I drink it in, a mere appetiser.

The children, my puppets, shuffle forward. One of them holds up a pair of branks, not the magical kind that silenced Thea, but a real one, made of rusted, jagged iron.

Clara’s dream-self backs away, her face a mask of disbelief.

This isn’t her dream anymore. It’s mine, and I’m just getting started.

I am going to make her scream until her voice is a shredded ruin.

Then, I’ll take that too. Just like she did to Thea.

The dream-Clara scrambles backwards, tripping over nothing.

The stitched-mouth children just walk, a slow, inevitable tide of her own cruelty.

They surround her, their little hands surprisingly strong as they grab her limbs.

She opens her mouth to scream, a shrill, pathetic sound I savour.

Then the branks are forced over her face. Rusted iron bites into her flesh. Her scream is cut off, turning into a muffled, desperate whimper. The fear spikes, pure and exquisite. It floods me, a feast of righteous terror that makes my magic sing.

I manifest before her, a shadow with silver eyes. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” I whisper, my voice echoing in the confines of her skull. “To have your voice stolen. To be silenced.”

Her eyes are wide, pleading. She knows every time she closes her eyes, I will be here. Waiting.

“This is just a taste. I’m going to take everything. Piece by piece. Until all you have left is the silence.”

The fear crests, a perfect wave of agony. I drink it down and let the dream shatter, leaving her to wake in a cold sweat, the phantom taste of iron on her tongue.

Back in the darkness of Lysithea’s room, I smile and settle around my queen.

Death is too quick for that witch. There will be no end to the suffering I will put her through.

That is my gift to Lysithea. Clara’s fear is a sweet, satisfying meal.

It settles in my gut, a warm coal of righteous vengeance.

It’s a clean burn, nothing like the terror I was forced to take from Lysithea.

Hers was a wound I had to share, a poison I had to taste. This is a fucking victory feast.

I shift, pulling Thea closer against me. She murmurs something in her sleep, a soft, nonsensical sound, and burrows deeper into my side. My arm tightens around her instinctively. Mine.

Verik grunts from the other side of the bed, a sleeping furnace. Evren is a statue of ice and shadow in the corner, ever watchful. A pack. The book wanted to test us, to break us down into our base components so it could forge us into something else entirely.

It won.

The grimoire thinks it’s teaching us to play its game, but it made one fatal error. It made us hers, and we’ll burn down any world, any god, that tries to take her from us. The Warden can wait. Tonight, we guard our queen.