Page 38 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)

37

Saevus Forest

Darcia could still feel the blood sliding down her skin, like an invisible yet permanent stain. She had killed someone in cold blood, succumbing to that terrible darkness that hovered violently over her whenever she was afraid or angry. She’d given in to her lineage as a daimon, as a cursed princess, as a monster . . .

She had taken a life.

And yet she felt no remorse.

Alasdair’s moan of pain, the most comforting sound she’d heard in a long time, moved her forward. He was alive, he could still be saved. Darcia ran toward him and knelt at his side. Her pulse had begun to tremble as the earth smeared with the remnants of blood. But even so she rested her hand on his, as if that gesture would somehow heal his wound.

“Tell me,” she asked him. “Tell me what I can do.”

“It’s not a deep cut,” he hissed, lowering his tormented gaze to the wound. “Let’s get out of here first.”

“You shouldn’t move . . . We need to treat . . .”

She couldn’t continue the sentence. The distant sound of soldiers approaching and shouting in different directions made her heart stop. Darcia gathered all their belongings in a hurry. Lykeios, who was limping on his injured leg, approached them with the pack ready to obey orders. Their fangs, like their fur, were stained with blood and remnants of Conrad’s dogs.

She turned her gaze to the corpses. She frowned as she saw how the man’s skin had begun to rot, even when only minutes had gone by. The stench of the corpse made Darcia want to vomit.

What had caused it?

“Put the satchel on his back. He can handle it,” Alasdair whispered between gasps of pain.

“He’s hurt. I’m not going to do that to him.”

“Don’t be . . .” Alasdair halted as a shot of pain ripped through his body. “Stubborn.”

“Shut up,” she commanded.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Darcia ignored the title and slung the pack tightly on her back instead. She helped Alasdair get back on his feet, who still kept a hand on the wound on his chest. He made a great effort to keep her from carrying the full weight of his body, but the pain was taking its toll.

From one moment to the next, he collapsed.

“Alasdair!” she whispered, leaning him against a tree.

Suddenly, a stabbing pain in her head pressed against her temples, making her whole body about to give in to the weight she was carrying. She heard thoughts too loud, felt emotions too intense. For a moment, she thought she was about to pass out too.

The thought of yielding crossed her mind. Maybe everything would be easier if she did. She’d spent her whole life struggling to survive, to live . . . And it had gotten her nowhere except a life as a fugitive and a broken heart.

Her eyes met the man she held in her arms. Alasdair, who had fought by her side, who had risked everything to keep her safe. If she was caught, he’d be imprisoned as well. If she died, so would he. And she’d never forgive herself.

The wolves approached her with a wariness that echoed in the forest. Their presence, majestic and wild, enveloped the air with a mixture of intrigue and respect.

Among them, one stood out for its youth; its fur lacked the marks of time that adorned the older ones. With a firm step, the wolf approached Darcia, its twinkling eyes reflecting intense curiosity. Gently, the animal extended its muzzle and brushed her leg, as if seeking to convey a message of encouragement and solidarity.

Darcia heard the army soldiers approaching, the horses running to where the men laid dead. As she heard Harg Koller’s voice in the distance shouting orders, she came to her senses. She wasn’t going to let them catch her. Not when she’d come this far.

Mustering her strength, she moved forward and let the wolves lead them to safety.

The rain became more violent after a couple of hours. Darcia almost thanked the goddesses when the wolves stopped in front of a cave protected by fallen trees and bare trunks. She pulled the satchel inside, and, after making way for the wolves, helped Alasdair down, who regained consciousness every few seconds only to lose it again.

She took off her cloak and placed it over a rock so Alasdair could lean against it without suffering icy pinpricks in his spine. Darcia rummaged through the satchels to find the ointment he had applied days earlier to her wound. There wasn’t much left, but it had to be enough.

Alasdair regained consciousness as she pulled the shirt away from the cut.

“If you wanted me to take my clothes off, all you had to do was ask.”

“Will this do?” she asked, ignoring him.

Alasdair nodded. “And rags. They’re in the small pocket.”

Lykeios handed Darcia the satchel with his paw. With trembling fingers, she carefully separated the linen rags and laid them on her lap, washing her hands with rainwater before rubbing the ointment between her fingertips. When she looked up, she saw Alasdair’s emerald eyes watching her closely.

“What?”

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

Darcia rolled her eyes. “The wound must be infected.”

“Maybe.”

She ignored him again, carefully pulling his clothes away from the wound until his torso was completely exposed. Darcia noticed the ink marks that decorated his body. The drawings were slightly smeared with blood, but she could still make out each one of them: a snake on his left side rising up to his chest, a howling wolf on his right, and some sort of beam balance with two skulls on his left shoulder.

With precious care, she began to stroke the wound, frowning ruefully each time Alasdair gasped in pain.

Alasdair began to relax as the tingle of the natural clay soothed the burning wound. Lykeios moved to his side, lying down next to him and resting his head on his thigh. The rest of the wolves stayed near the entrance, watching for the arrival of any danger.

“I need you to stand up straight,” Darcia said when she finished. “I’m going to put the rags on you.”

“You’re good at giving orders,” Alasdair sneered. “You were certainly born to be a princess.”

“Are you really going to make jokes when you’re in this state?”

“I told you it wasn’t that deep a cut.”

“That’s why you have blacked out all the way here, isn’t it?” Darcia ironized, crossing her arms over her breasts.

“Maybe I planned all this for you to touch me.”

“I should have let you bleed to death,” she threatened him.

“I’m sure you would have.”

Alasdair remained silent as she bandaged him. Darcia noticed his eyes droop with fever and the redness of his cheeks. No matter how bad he felt, he wouldn’t protest. He was a proud man, with a strong will to stay alive.

She’d once considered him a mystery, but Darcia had been observant. She’d become aware of how he swirled the rings on his fingers while he thought in silence, as if the movements cleared his mind. He had a habit of sleeping on his side, his hand clutching his dagger so tightly Darcia wondered if he’d ever felt safe. Whenever he got angry, his lower lip slightly twitched and his fists clenched involuntarily.

Darcia finished putting the bandage on the wound and helped him lie down. He settled back against the cloak she’d laid out and sighed with exhaustion.

When she looked down at her hands and saw the blood, her mind tortured her with images of Caeli lying on the stage floor as the circus burned around them. She’d learned to hold back the tears, even when they were willing to bring her down. But a colder and stronger feeling kept her moving, and that was the desire of revenge. When she found her sister, they would join forces and face whatever fate the Triad had planned for them.

One of the wolves stood up with a yawn and approached Darcia. She looked at the animal with confusion as it sat down next to her.

“If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done it by now,” Alasdair told her in a breathy whisper. When Darcia dug her hand into the shiny brown fur, the she-wolf allowed her to pet its back in silence and Alasdair smiled. “Protected by wolves . . . Surely, goddess Kazaris stands with you.”

Darcia looked into those familiar emerald eyes that made her feel safe. “How do you know that?”

“The legend tells that Kazaris fell in love with a wolf shifter. An impossible love.” Alasdair stirred and winced, but his mouth produced no complaint. “The laws of magic couldn’t allow a goddess and a dryad to be together. But Kazaris, with the help of her twin Kuheia, did everything she could to break those laws and be with the man she loved.”

“And could she?” Darcia asked.

“She could, for a while. It’s said that the Anam Cara bond was born from them. That she created it so as not to be separated from the love of her life. No one knew what really happened between them. Rumor has it that it was a curse of nature itself, or perhaps imposed by someone else. The shifter was doomed to be a wolf for all eternity and the goddess had to say goodbye to him forever.” Alasdair gestured toward the wolf pack. “Somehow you and I were destined to meet.”

“It seems to me that meeting me has only cursed you.”

“My life was already cursed, gorgeous. Being here, with you, is my choice.”

Before Darcia could say otherwise, Alasdair fell back asleep. She curled up next to him, attentive to his breathing and the way his chest rose and fell heavily, hoping tomorrow would be a better day.

The sound of the persistent rain woke Darcia up repeatedly throughout the night. She tried to fall back to sleep, but after repeated unsuccessful attempts, she decided to get up.

The wolves were still guarding the entrance. Some of them slept; others came out among the logs to make sure that no danger fell upon them. In gratitude, Darcia took some dried meat from her own pack and divided it among the wolves, who looked honored that she’d approached.

She washed her face and hands with water from a worn-out wineskin. The blood was almost completely gone, but not the events. They were still there, permeating her skin and her memory.

Darcia hobbled around the cave. Parts of the ground were scratched, probably from the paws of the wolves that hid there during storms and cold winter nights. In the faint light of dawn coming through the logs, she could see irregularities in the wall. At first, she thought they were shadows, but when she knelt down to get a better look, she noticed them for what they were.

Drawings.

They were tiny, frayed drawings that stretched all over the rock wall. Something burned inside her chest as Darcia traced her hand over them. The paint had worn off from the moisture, but no one seemed to have touched them in a long time.

Conrad’s voice came back to her mind; not to threaten her, but to enlighten her with the truth.

A savage child raised by wolves and only the goddesses know what else , he had said.

Darcia turned to look at the pack with an unspoken question. As they stared back at her, she knew. It wasn’t just any cave, and they weren’t any pack.

That cave had been her home. The place where Lisabetta had found her, where she’d been cared for and kept away from the curse that threatened to end her forever . . . They had been her protectors as a child and they were protecting her now.

Not Lykeios or Alasdair, but her.

There was a wolf with gray fur and tired eyes at the front of the cave. From his gait, he looked old, but he walked at a steady pace toward Darcia. She didn’t notice when tears had begun to kiss her cheeks, nor when her breathing turned uneven.

“Thank you,” Darcia murmured, unable to stop crying. “For everything.”

Then the wolf bowed to her, and so did the rest of the pack.

To the heiress of the Fallen Kingdom, the rightful princess of Ro’i Rājya.

Her heart flipped, as if among many other things, she’d always been destined to be who she was. To face that fate.

And to be cursed above all else.