Page 39 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter thirty-one

Cyrus beat on the witch’s door. “Essandra!” he bellowed. He’d tried to force it open, but it was locked. He beat harder.

She ripped it open, her face fixed in fury. No doubt she was still angry with him for what had happened earlier in the throne room, but when she saw him, her mouth slacked, and her brows lined a dip above her widening eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He pushed himself into her chamber. “Bring him back!” he begged. “Bring him back now!”

She stumbled backward. Her mouth opened and her lips moved as if to form words, but no sound came. “What’s wrong—what happened?” she finally managed to get out. “Bring who where?”

“Kieve!”

“I’ve been working on an alternative to the portal magic, but I haven’t—”

“No, get your bowl and bring him back!” He grabbed her. “Get your bowl and bring him back!”

She froze as she realized what he was saying.

“Where is it?” He whirled around, searching. “Where is it?” He moved to the chest of drawers along the wall, ripping them open and pulling the clothing out from inside. It wasn’t there.

“Cyrus—”

He whirled back around and scanned the room. He moved to the open shelves, knocking things as he went—jars filled with herbs and liquids, candles, it didn’t matter. He swept it all out of the way. “Where is it?!”

Then he saw it.

The bowl sat on the small table by the bed.

Essandra didn’t move to stop him as he grabbed it. She only shook her head. “Cyrus—”

He pushed it into her hands. “Bring him back,” he begged.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then, however it works, whatever you need. Tell me—I’ll get it.”

“Cyrus—”

“Please!” He pressed her hands tighter against the bowl, cupping them in his own. “Please. Bring him back.” He dropped his forehead against her hands, begging, praying. She was the closest thing to a god; he knew she had the power. She could bring Kieve back.

“Cyrus—”

“Please!”

“Cyrus!” She dropped the bowl and grabbed his face. “Look at me.”

He quieted and raised his eyes to hers.

“I need the flower of an everlife tree,” she said, “grown over his body.”

His heart beat heavily and he nodded as he swallowed. He’d find Kieve’s body, and get the bloom from this tree—

“No, Cyrus, listen to me. An everlife tree takes twenty years to flower, at least.”

He stilled. Twenty years…

“And I’d need his blood, and the blood of a family member still alive to create the life bond to anchor him to the world of the living.”

He glanced down, trying to remember. Did Kieve have any other family? Anywhere? No. “What if he—what if he doesn’t have family?”

She shook her head sadly.

“We can’t bring him back because he doesn’t have family?” No, that couldn’t be right.

“No, I’d have no way to bond him to the living world. And we don’t have his body, or his blood—”

“I’ll get those!” He’d get them himself.

“Or the flower from his everlife tree—we have nothing. I can’t bring him back because we have nothing .”

Cold rippled through him. A deathly cold.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

That couldn’t be the answer. No. He couldn’t accept that.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

Cyrus just stood there, staring at her. But not seeing her, not really. Essandra, with all her impossible power, with her spells and her shadows of defiance—if anyone could bend the rules of life and death, it was her.

But there were things even she couldn’t do.

His hands fell from her. His eyes burned, but no tears came. Not yet.

“That’s it?” he asked quietly. But it wasn’t a real question. He already knew the answer. A hollow beat passed between them. She didn’t try to fill it.

His shoulders dropped.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked from her chamber.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. He didn’t know anything anymore. All he knew was that his friend was gone. So many of his friends were gone. Even as king, this world kept taking from him. The Shadow King kept taking from him.

He passed a large wall mirror and paused, staring at his reflection—at his face looking back at him. Alexander’s face looking back at him. Mocking him.

Anguish ripped from his throat as he clasped the top edge of the mirror and tore it from the wall. The glass shattered on the marble floor. It felt good, and he needed more. Everything fell in his wake—vases, tapestries, the glass panes on the interior doors.

The halls were mostly empty of people, but the few poor souls he did pass quickly scurried out of his way.

“Cyrus!” Essandra’s voice came behind him, but he didn’t stop. He let the tempest within him rage.

He stormed the palace. As he passed the council room, he slid to a stop and then stormed back to it.

This room—he hated this room. He ripped the paintings from the walls.

He’d left them before because they weren’t self-indulgent portraits of rulers past. They were landscapes and flowers— but there would be no fucking flowers here!

A marble horse head sat atop a display column in the corner of the room.

It took all his weight, but he toppled it to the ground.

He caught sight of Essandra. She’d given up trying to stop him and just followed.

Back out in the hall, another large mirror sat mounted against a wall, and he ripped it off, sending hundreds of glass shards exploding around him.

He broke another mirror, and another. He’d break everything in this palace.

The way he was broken. He couldn’t hold it together anymore. He didn’t want to.

Finally, exhausted, he stopped, panting. His body hurt; his head hurt. And suddenly, he couldn’t stand anymore. He sank to the floor. The broken glass bit into his skin, but he didn’t care.

“Cyrus,” Essandra said as she stepped carefully through the glass toward him.

“Don’t,” he told her wearily. “You’ll cut yourself.”

But she didn’t listen and made her way to him. Quietly, she dropped down in front of him.

“Come on,” she said softly, and took his hand.

Slowly, he got to his feet and let her pull him from the hall.

She led him to Teron’s workroom. When they reached it, Teron wasn’t there, but Essandra pushed Cyrus to sit on a stool and then searched the room’s drawers for supplies.

She found some pincers and some clean linen.

She cut the leathers around his thighs with a pair of shears and pulled them from his legs to work on the small shards of glass lodged in his knees.

Cyrus sat, hollow. He didn’t even feel the glass pulled from his skin. The room was quiet, save the clinking of glass shards as she dropped them into a small, metal bowl.

Finally, he broke the silence. “He didn’t want to come back,” he said. “I told him I would come for him, but he didn’t want to come back.”

She paused for a moment, glancing up at him before continuing with the glass.

“I thought he would get better,” he said. “I gave him Pyro so he would get better.” His lip trembled. His whole body trembled. “Why didn’t he get better?”

She put the bowl on the table. Then she stepped forward and put her arms around him.

A silent sob escaped him as he buried his face in her neck. “Why didn’t he get better?”

She tightened her hold around him. “What does revenge heal?”

“Everything.”

“Cyrus.” She stepped back, making him look at her. “ Nothing ,” she whispered. “Revenge heals nothing .”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not true.”

She gave a sad frown, but she didn’t argue.

“That’s not true,” he said again.

Teron entered and stopped abruptly in his step in seeing Cyrus. Then quickly he came. “What happened?” he asked.

Cyrus couldn’t answer.

“We lost Kieve,” Essandra said.

Teron grew quiet. His eyes traveled to Cyrus’s bloody knees, then he spotted the small bowl of glass shards on the table. “Did you get them all out?” he asked Essandra.

She nodded.

“I’ll take care of the rest.” The cuts were shallow, and Teron’s touch healed them quickly. Then he went to the counter and stirred some herbs into a drink. Returning to Cyrus, he held it out to him.

“What’s this for?” Cyrus asked. Teron had never given him anything medicinal before.

“For the mind.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he said, and pushed it back toward him

But Essandra stopped him. “Take it.”

“I have things to do—”

“That can wait.” She nodded to the herbs again. “You need more sleep, and you probably won’t get it otherwise. Drink it down.”

Cyrus eyed the mixture. She was right. He hadn’t slept, and he wouldn’t sleep. Not now, even though he was exhausted. Maybe just a couple of hours. Yes, just a couple of hours, and he drank deeply.

Cyrus blinked his eyes open slowly. Where was he? He tried to focus his vision against the sea of red around him.

Blood.

No, not blood. His eyes sharpened. Crimson sheets. On a bed—a rather large bed. He moved to sit.

“Easy,” a voice called softly. He turned to see Essandra sitting in a chair by the window. She put down the book that she’d been reading on the small side table and rose, moving toward him.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“My chamber.”

His brows dipped, and he blinked back the fog in his mind. The royal room was different from when he’d last been in it. “Why am I in your room?” he asked.

“Because the herbs worked faster than expected, and Teron and I could only manage to carry you so far. This was closer.”

Teron. Everything came flooding back: Kieve, Cyrus’s wake of anger, Teron’s mixture.

“And it’s more convenient for me as I watch after you,” she added.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

“I know,” she said matter-of-factly as she stepped back to the table and poured a small cup of hot tea. She moved to the bed, sitting down on the edge, and held it out for him. “Drink this.”

“I don’t want any more of whatever that is.”

“There’s nothing in here; it’s just tea.”

He eyed it suspiciously but accepted it. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, then took a sip. It was hot, but good, and he drank it down.

“All day, and now part of the night.”

“It’s night now?”

She nodded. “The middle of it.”

He sighed. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

She gave a small smile. “I’m all right.” She took the cup back from him, but as she moved to set it on the side table, he caught her arm.

Cyrus didn’t know what made him reach for her. Despite her taking his body when she wanted it, he hadn’t felt comfortable asking for hers. He didn’t feel comfortable now. He wasn’t even lustful.

He wasn’t sure what he needed, he just needed .

She seemed to understand. And to have pity for him. Slowly, she reached back behind her and loosened the lacing of her dress, then pulled it from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She left her chemise on but reached underneath to pull off her undergarments.

There wasn’t a rush of desire. This wasn’t for pleasure.

Cyrus stripped off what was left of his torn leathers as Essandra lay down beside him, and he pulled her underneath him. He moved between her thighs and strung saliva to coat himself. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t try to control him. She simply let him take what he needed.

He sank inside her. She was warm and soft, and felt good and real. Gods, he was so desperate for something good and real.

She rocked her hips to encourage him. But he couldn’t.

His chest tightened. What was wrong with him?

He’d thought he needed her. He did need her, but not like this. He just needed to have her, to be close to her, to be close to someone.

He knew she didn’t like for him to touch her, but he couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her and laid his head against where her neck met her shoulder.

The smell of her calmed him.

Right now, he was weak, but she was powerful. She had enough power for the both of them. His racing heart slowed.

“There’s something wrong with me,” he whispered.

She was quiet for a moment, before she said, “There’s something wrong with all of us.”

The softness of her hands drifted over his back, running up into his hair. His body grew heavier, and he let himself breathe her in deeper.

Her warmth.

Her scent.

Her calm.

When he opened his eyes again, light poured through the window.

It was morning.

Essandra lay asleep beside him. They weren’t joined anymore, but her leg was draped over his hip, and his arms were still wrapped around her. Her hair spilled across the pillow, wild and dark.

Her skin called to him, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t press his mouth to her shoulder. Didn’t let his hands wander.

Not for lack of want, but he knew there were boundaries—boundaries she’d let him cross in his anguish.

But she wasn’t his. She’d merely given him what he’d needed to keep from completely breaking.

It wasn’t something he could expect often, perhaps not ever again. He respected that.

He let his head rest back down for a moment, pulling strength from the touch between them—her strength. She was the strongest person he’d ever met, and right now, he needed that.

Eventually, he moved. Slowly, carefully, he slipped his arm from beneath her and pulled away. She didn’t wake.

He rose, dressed in silence, and stood at the door for a breath. Just one. Then he stepped out into the hall.

The sunlight was harsh against his eyes, too bright, too clean.

It didn’t care about Kieve. It didn’t care that Cyrus was broken, or that the Shadow King had taken from him yet again.

He’d taken something dear. Cyrus made another promise to himself as he padded back to his chamber—the Shadow King would die.