Page 36 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)

35

Saevus Forest

A week had passed.

A week in which Darcia was a fugitive from the Crown.

Darcia and Alasdair had to leave the inn the next day. The thief made use of his delinquent skills to ‘borrow’ a few articles of clothing and food for their journey. At first, she looked at him with disapproval, but eventually realized that, whether she wanted to or not, they needed those provisions to survive. And there was still a long way ahead of them before they reached Bellmare.

With each passing day, nature changed and the temperatures dropped at the soon arrival of winter’s solstice, known as the Night of the Fallen Stars. Despite the cold, they didn’t light any bonfires to avoid being seen. They slept in the forest, hidden by low bushes. But on the days of freezing storms, they paid for a room in discreet taverns to protect themselves from the weather.

“I have begun to loathe the rain with every fiber of my being,” Darcia said as she admired the storm through the small window in the room, which had delayed their journey.

After finding an inn in the town of Icemire, Darcia had kept the dark hood of her cloak in place to cover her features. It was Alasdair who paid for the room with the last of their vramnias. But as the rain dampened the earth, she’d focused on the simplicity of the stale food and sour ale to keep her mind off the torment that plagued her at night.

Alasdair silently fiddled with the dagger he’d stolen from Darcia after one of the first encounters.

“They say that snow is a symbol of good omens, fortune, and a better future.”

Darcia snorted. “But it’s raining, not snowing. Which makes me think things aren’t going to get better any time soon.”

“To know that we don’t need the rain either.”

“Any news?” she asked, plopping down by his side on the rickety bed.

Alasdair turned to face her and set the dagger on his lap. He’d been out a few nights to gather information from the villagers, to no avail. By the sparkle in his eyes, Darcia wondered if perhaps he’d been lucky this time.

“Apparently, the Chaser is already looking for us with the help of your stepbrother’s dogs.”

Darcia looked at him with a frown. “Dogs?”

“The Fiend’s dogs,” Alasdair explained, leaning back to look at her. “They are said to be the men he entrusts with his dirty work. They aren’t mere dryadalis, not since he has turned them into monsters. They are recognizable by their disfigured faces and their insatiable thirst for blood.”

A shiver ran through her body.

“That isn’t comforting at all.”

“It isn’t. Let’s hope your sister is smart and stays hidden until we get there.”

“I didn’t know where I came from, so what makes you think she knows who she really is?”

“Well, if she doesn’t, I hope it remains that way. At least until we find her.”

“She’ll probably call us crazy,” she sighed. Alasdair looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“You do realize you’re twins, right? It’ll be like looking in a mirror. She’ll have to believe us.”

“Even if she doesn’t believe me, I won’t leave her on her own,” Darcia admitted. “She may only be my sister by blood, but her life is also about to be destroyed.”

“Conrad said she was a hetaira,” he reminded her.

“All right, maybe her life is horrible! But she must have something good in it. Something to fight for.” Darcia shook her head. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

Alasdair reached for her hand and handed her the dagger, the familiarity of his touch making her skin tingle. She looked up to meet his mesmerizing green eyes.

“From this moment on, this is your life, and you must protect it. You’ll have to make hard decisions, some worse than others. The world is cruel, especially when there are people who decide whether you deserve to live in it.”

“I’m very aware of my decisions,” she said.

“Good. Because fate has granted you back the power of choice. If you really want to be free, you’ll have to be the one to dictate the course of your own story. Not your stepbrother, not your father, not the family you’ve never known . . . But you.”

Darcia looked down at the dagger again, where Alasdair’s hand lingered dangerously close.

“Don’t let them take your future away from you, gorgeous. It’s the only thing that truly belongs to you.”

“You speak of it as if your life is no longer yours.”

Alasdair’s gaze suddenly turned glacial, as though Darcia had struck a chord. The thief pulled his hand away.

“There are many things that don’t belong to me anymore,” was the last thing he said, as he laid back on the bed with his back to her.

Alasdair’s survival instincts woke him with a jolt. He sat up in the stiff mattress where Darcia still slept beside him, ragged breathing marking the rhythm of her racing heartbeat. She hadn’t wanted to get in his mind to rest, nor had he forced her to. She seemed willing to overcome her nightmares on her own.

Darcia was broken, but she was good. She was brave, stubborn, beautiful, and good despite everything that had been taken from her.

Careful not to wake her up, he climbed out of the bed. Drops of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his forehead, stirring his brown hair. He approached the window with silent steps, only to pull away as distant noises that mimicked the cold wind whipping through the branches of the ash trees reached his ears.

Followed by horses’ hooves and iron armor.

Alasdair rushed to the bed, shaking Darcia to wake her up.

“We have to go, now !”

She didn’t ask any questions. Darcia stood up with a pained grimace and hurriedly grabbed all her belongings before throwing her cloak over her shoulders and covering her face with the hood. Alasdair soon did the same.

“We’ll have to go out through the stable,” he informed her before looking at her again. “How do you feel about climbing?”

Darcia shook her head, lowering her eyes to her injured arm. “I don’t think I can.”

“Then we’ll have to run.”

With no time to waste, Alasdair grabbed her hand and guided her toward the door. He reached for the pommel, the hinges of the door creaking as he opened it. A dimly lit hall greeted him, offering them a secure passage. He urged her to move and they hurriedly walked through the darkness, out into the cold night and into the vastness of the forest.

Alasdair moved forward first, securing each step so that Darcia was safe.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Yes,” Darcia said.

Liar , Alasdair thought to himself.

He led her through the trees until they found a path covered with moss, rocks and frost. They slipped a couple of times on the icy mud that lined it, but Alasdair moved faster with the horse hooves at their heels.

At the sight of a shadow approaching, Alasdair and Darcia ducked.

“Shit,” he cursed.

“Little princess,” a deep voice crooned. “Come out, wherever you are.”

Darcia trembled with trepidation. “They are looking for me.”

“Quiet, gorgeous. If her Royal Highness doesn’t want us to be found, we won’t be,” Alasdair whispered, teasing her with her title.

“I don’t want to lose control.”

“They want to kill you, Darcia. This is a bad time to stay in control.”

She had to know that too. After all, it was her only weapon to defend herself.

With a silent nod, Alasdair watched her as she plunged into the depths of her magic.

Darcia was falling into a maelstrom of shadows. Lines of reality blurred around her as she reached that higher plane her magic designed, seeing everything from above like a goddess of fates.

She lowered her gaze to the place where her physical body still remained, but her eyes were two spheres of oblivion, dark as obsidian. Alasdair was still beside her body, holding a dagger in his hand. His gaze was set on her, worried and at the same time intrigued about what she was about to do.

Aggressive thoughts and dark emotions pulsed through her veins, and Darcia forced herself to keep her eyes wide open. In the distance, between the shadows of the trees near them, there was a veiled figure.

They appeared at last.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Alasdair stood up, shielding Darcia with his body. “What brings you here, gentlemen?” he asked mockingly.

There were four men. Scars covered their necks and foreheads and their faces were emaciated, as if they’d been repeatedly burned. The threads of their minds were crimson red, so vivid that the first thing Darcia thought of was spilled blood. Thick collars squeezed the skin of their throats, leaving a considerable mark.

Conrad’s dogs.

“We’re looking for someone. Someone,” he said as he nodded toward Darcia, “you might know.”

A dull thought crashed into her mind. Alasdair wasn’t going to let them near her. They would be dead before they were able to reach her.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Careful, boy. There’s no need for bloodshed.”

Darcia, still in that magical form she’d taken, approached the men from behind and caught a glimpse of the devilish grin that crossed the thief’s face. He was provoking him on purpose.

“Funny.” Alasdair tilted his head to the side. “I was about to say the same thing.”

“She’s coming with us. Stand back and no one will get hurt.”

Alasdair pretended to think about it. “Someone will bleed tonight, then.”

When the men raised their weapons, ready to attack, Darcia unleashed her power against them.

Shadows surrounded them.

There were no trees, no night, no stars. It was utter blackness; a devouring, eternal darkness that provided Alasdair with the advantage he needed.

He pulled out two long daggers that he hid under his clothes. Sharp as death, the arcane metal that composed them shone with light of their own. Such weapons were intended to inflict harm, to kill. As he took a step to face her stepbrother’s dogs, a sharp, violent intake of breath stopped him.

No, Darcia hadn’t only created the darkness . . .

From it, something else was born.

They emerged in haste. With lurid, dangerous maws, their scarlet red eyes rested on the men. They snarled and waved their long, stinger-like tails with strange spikes decorating their spines and the top of their heads, like a crown of death.

The nameless monsters grinned at them, ready to tear and destroy.

“Do you think you can fool us with a bloody illusion?” one of the men yelled, still frozen in place.

Darcia spoke on the real plane, “Not all of them are.”

Lykeios jumped out of the shadows and lunged at one of the men, taking a firm bite at his neck. That motion was all Alasdair needed to act. Two of the men lunged at him, but he was already waiting for them, calculating their every move.

Darcia’s rage grew in her chest. Her power roared in that bottomless pit that she longed to absorb and consume.

The monsters were useful for a few seconds. Lykeios focused on attacking two of the men, while Alasdair restrained the others. Darcia had little time to notice the precision of their movements. Every twist, every lunge . . . One of the men tried to grab him by the throat, but Alasdair was as fast as a shadow in the night.

Wailings reached her ears from behind, and Darcia became aware of the deep cut in the wolf’s foreleg. Before she could reach Lykeios, one of Conrad’s dogs shoved him against one of the veiled trees. Darcia ran to the wolf, her dagger in hand. Her whole body was shaking with panic; so much so she could barely breathe.

She couldn’t let them find her. But most importantly, she wouldn’t let her enemies hurt those who had helped her.

Darcia had no training.

She knew just enough to defend herself.

Still, she had something much stronger: hatred.

As she lunged for one of them, Darcia raised her arm with the dagger held high to stab his back. She needed to keep them away from Alasdair, to protect him—even when she was unable to protect herself. Having the blood of yet another person in her hands wasn’t a choice.

The tip of her dagger barely made contact with Conrad’s loyal dog. He turned around to face her, his eyes filled with rage. Darcia started to recoil, one step after the other, but he was faster—faster than anything she’d seen before. With an unnatural force, he grabbed her wrist until her veins tightened and her fingers went numb.

“Look what we have here,” he said with a devious smile. “Your brother is going to be very happy when he sees you.”

Her brother.

The Fiend.

Darcia wasn’t going to let them take her to him, at least not without a fight. After days of short-lived freedom, she’d rather die right there and then before they took her back to that monster.

“I’m afraid he’s going to be very disappointed,” she responded, lifting her right knee to kick him in the crotch.

He howled in pain and bent in half.

Well, they do have a weakness after all , she thought.

Upon finding him at her height, she plunged the dagger into his neck, drops of blood spilling over her face. The shackles around his throat flickered for a brief moment, announcing his impending death. Darcia took a step back as the man fell to the ground . . .

Dead.

Lykeios faced the other dryad. Darcia directed her magic at him, sending the monsters of shadows to distract the man long enough to confuse him.

The wound in the wolf’s paw gushed blood with every step he took forward, and though he didn’t seem willing to give up, Conrad’s dog wouldn’t either. He approached the wolf, his sword raised with deadly intent. The dark hunger to slay the creature and drape its fur across his shoulders burned in his eyes.

A howl crossed the space, beyond the illusion, beyond the forest. Darcia stared at the powerful wolf, her heartbeats echoing in her ears as she thought of what Lykeios had done. Figures cut through the night, the wet soil caving under the weight of their paws. The first thing she saw was their fur, which went from black to brown and white. Their fangs were exposed, growling in the man’s direction.

Wolves.

Dozens of wolves that Lykeios had summoned.

Lykeios took the first step forward; the direct order of an alpha.

‘Attack.’

And the pack obeyed, pouncing on the man to devour him alive.

Alasdair enjoyed music the most, especially the one that preceded death.

Those who wanted Darcia to use her—to kill her—weren’t invincible. He’d taken enough lives to know that, for someone to be alive, they must have a heart. A weakness. If he was quick, he’d be able to stop them from achieving their purposes.

He whirled about himself with great ability, swinging his daggers to stop the attacks of the sword. Despite the reinforced clothing that covered most of Conrad’s dogs bodies, there was nothing that the arcane metal of his weapons couldn’t cut.

He spun, cut, and spun again.

For Alasdair, physical strength wasn’t the most important advantage one could have when being in combat. And his opponents were proof of that. They were too slow, too arrogant . . .

He sliced through the man’s lower stomach without mercy, forcibly thrusting and raising the dagger through his body, all the way to his throat. As the man crumpled lifeless in front of him, a second charged toward him.

Alasdair wasn’t going to give up. He still had a lot of things to accomplish, and getting out of there alive was the first of them.

The man lunged at him violently, consumed by the rage upon his companion’s death. He fought harder than most people Alasdair had fought against, pushing all his strength to the limit. From rage and hatred, the menessbane necklace around the dog’s neck glowed brightly, completely obliterating the illusion of Darcia around him.

Alasdair turned to search for Darcia. An instant, just a brief moment that shattered the world into a thousand pieces before the edge of the sword cut into his chest.

“No!” Darcia shouted at the top of her lungs.

The cut was perfect, brutal.

Alasdair fell, his hand pressed to the wound to stop the bleeding. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darcia running toward him, but she wouldn’t reach him in time. Not with Conrad’s dog lifting his sword high, ready to end him.

One thrust.

One thrust and he’d be dead.

“Say goodbye to your miserable life, boy.”

Still, Darcia didn’t seem willing to let that happen. She stretched her arm in front of her, her palm exposed . . . Her magic was reborn fiercer than ever to stop him.

A loud scream reached Alasdair’s ears first. One that was accompanied by agony as their enemy’s body broke down and his skin peeled off his face, where her magic had attacked first. The smell of burned flesh hung in the air, and Alasdair, though weak and out of breath, searched for Darcia in the darkness of the night.

Her eyes were black, and all hint of the boreal hues had disappeared from her irises. Darcia’s lips were moving, pronouncing chants in the forgotten language of adhmati. The language of the Fallen Kingdom.

As she took a step toward them, a vibration ran through Alasdair’s body. Darcia’s magic seemed to course through her veins with the violence of an endless storm.

He watched her take a breath before speaking louder.

To call out to her darkness.

To become it.

A burst of blood took place and the dryad’s body hit the ground, breaking every bone in his body.

Keeping his hand pressed to his chest, Alasdair tried to stand up and reach her. His legs nearly betrayed him at the sight of Darcia’s hand covered in blood, the crimson stream trickling down her forearm and pooling next to her boots. Blackness flickered wild in the shimmering boreal goodness of her eyes, as she stared at the source of the blood.

A heart.

It wasn’t an illusion she’d casted, but reality. She’d ripped out his heart from his chest with her bare hands.

Alasdair was right—someone had bled that night.