Page 62 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

Blair

Blair’s vision blurs. Pain. Searing pain shoots through her. Caryan’s teeth tear her flesh so savagely, so brutally, she cries out. Her whole body burns from an invisible fire.

Her silver nails dig into his hand around her throat. A ridiculous effort to loosen the grip of an angel. She’s lifted into the air. She kicks wildly, trying to fight. But her power and magic are draining out of her and into Caryan with every sip he takes.

Blair pulls her lips into a tormented smile. Somehow it feels fitting that she will perish by Caryan’s cruel hand, the same way her aunt died. Drunk to a husk.

As if that missing piece of their triangle finally snapped into place.

“Stop! Please!”

A faint female voice sounds behind her, carrying all the horror Blair doesn’t feel.

“Please, don’t kill her!” the voice starts again, closer.

Her scent wafts over to Blair then—the scent of the sweet human world Blair dreams about. A life where she could have…

Why the hell is this girl pleading for her?

Melody. The ridiculous, soft-hearted creature. Well, look who’s talking. Pot, kettle, black , that dark voice in Blair’s mind whispers.

Caryan’s eyes turn to the girl, but he doesn’t stop drinking. And Blair knows he won’t. Not until she’s dry and brittle. He’s an angel, always has been. They have no heart, have no mercy, and it’s alright.

When Blair blinks again, the girl is no longer there.

Caryan lets go of Blair so quickly she meets the ground hard.

Groaning and cursing, she makes it to her feet, not willing to glance at the blood that’s soaked into her clothes. Instead, she stares at the open tent flap fluttering in the wind.

Where the hell is Caryan? And what the fuck happened? Where is the girl?

Blair moves, hissing as every tiny movement sends a wave of agonizing pain through the wound on her neck and all down her body. Leaving a bloody imprint of her hand on the wall of the tent, she stumbles outside.

She fights on through the knee-deep snow, flakes the size of walnuts whirling all around her, accompanied by hail that needles her ravaged skin. She falls to her knees, panting hard, darkness wavering at her periphery as she spots two figures, barely more than sentinels in the dark. The whirlwind of flakes so thick they look unreal.

Behind her, Blair smells the other two high lords, who must have returned after having realized the phantom creatures she sent were nothing but a distraction. They halt next to her, all three of them gazing at the girl.

The girl who’s standing at the very edge of an icy cliff, shivering so badly she can barely keep herself upright.

Only yards away, Caryan. He’s gone still as stone.

“Let her live. Let her live or I’ll jump.”

The wind carries the girl’s voice over. Blair, despite the pain, lifts her head. Why? Why fight for me? Again. And blackmailing Caryan… She’s got some balls. Crazy half-human.

“Come back, Melody!” Caryan’s voice is like a sword, cutting through the whirlwind, his eyes gleaming in the storm like two wildfires bundled into marbles. All Gatilla’s monster, no trace of the man Blair sometimes lay with in all those lonely hours. But even he doesn’t dare move .

“Promise you won’t hurt her,” the girl says again, swaying slightly.

Blair curses silently. One wrong move and she will fall, plunge to certain death.

“Come. Back,” Caryan repeats, his voice dead as stone.

“No. Promise—or I’ll jump. You won’t be fast enough to catch me. Not in this storm. And from this height, not even you’ll be able to bring me back,” she says, every word cut off by her chattering teeth.

Caryan snarls, his wings spread, ready to launch himself at her. But… he doesn’t. Even he doesn’t dare.

Blair holds her breath. Because Melody’s right—not even the angel will be able to bring her back if she falls. And from the fierce determination in Melody’s eyes, Blair knows she means every word. She will jump.

For a strange moment, everything around Caryan has grown as still as he. The storm subsides, snowflakes drifting softly through the air as even the wind has fallen silent, as if it, too, listens to Caryan’s words, deep and vicious as he says, “I promise.”

The girl nods, as if to herself. And, as if she’s just been holding out long enough for this, she collapses.

Caryan is already there, catching her body and carrying her back to the tent in his arms, not once looking toward Blair as he strides past. Of course not.

Blair doesn’t fight when Ronin and Kyrith grab her arms, the first one as madly beautiful as she remembers him, the second the same rugged-looking bastard. A scream rips from her throat as they wrench her up and the wound on her neck is torn open all over.

“Fun’s over, witch,” Kyrith croons. The white-haired idiot has the nerve to smirk at her, his eyes glistening with a dark kind of enjoyment.

“Fuck off, you shithead,” she snarls. That earns her a snap of his vampire teeth right into her face, way too close to her shredded throat. Not that Blair can do anything in Ronin’s relentless grip other than pull her lips back .

It is pretty much the last thing she masters before everything grows dark around her and she falls into oblivion.

Blair’s curled next to one of the fires, hands tied behind her back with iron chains when she awakes.

The first thing she notices is that she feels different. Empty—the steadying, ever-present hum in her veins, her magic… gone.

She lies like that for a while, with her eyes closed, half dead, her mind straining for some leftovers somewhere inside her that Caryan might have overlooked.

But there’s nothing. Not a single ember is left to stir when she calls to her power.

It’s all gone. She’s a witch without magic.

A witch without magic and no coven to return to.

She’s as good as dead. Her body is nothing but a strange, lifeless shell without it. Weaker than any lesser fae.

She listens to the howling outside, hoping that Aurora and Sofya have returned to Perenilla by now. It’s all Blair could do for them—make sure they’re safe.

She doesn’t know how long she lies there, drifting in and out of sleep, unanchored, without the grounding power of her magic, before she feels brave enough to finally open her eyes.

Gods, her body is like a deadweight without magic. How the hells can humans move like this? Her head feels like it’s about to burst, her lips parched, her whole body aching for water. But the wound at her neck at least seems to have closed up because the thirst is worse than the pain when she manages to lift her head. The good news is that her fae healing is still working. Even with her magic gone.

She should be thankful she’s still breathing, but all she wishes for is death.

Her vision blurs a few times. She fights against grinding nausea before she summons enough of her strength to sit up and lean against one of the wooden posts that hold the huge tent up. The room—it’s more a room than a tent—swims in front of her eyes before it slowly solidifies .

Blair’s jar unhinges at the picture before her. She’s only ever seen Caryan with his wings on the battlefield, never any other time. To see him now—the cruel, ruthless angel she knows—sitting with his wings folded around the unconscious girl in his arms is… definitely something new.

Not something she thought she’d ever see.

When she eventually tears her gaze away from the angel to take in more of her surroundings, she finds Kyrith scowling at her from a corner next to one of the fires. The red-haired witcher is behind him, stretched out on a bed, his back turned to the room, obviously sleeping.

“Do you think Perenilla is going to send more witches?”

It takes Blair a solid minute to realize that Caryan’s question is directed toward her. Her voice comes out cracked when she answers truthfully, “I don’t know. All I do know is that she sent me here, but I guess you know all that already.”

He ripped everything from her blood. Hells, all her miserable memories. All the darkness he caused. Splendid, now he knows what a pathetic piece of a mess she’s become because of him.

“That was not my question,” he counters.

Now his eyes find hers and she can’t help but marvel at the bright starlight blue she’s never seen before, not even when they screwed at Gatilla’s court, his eyes always a glistening black then.

“Why did she send you here? What did she hope you would achieve?”

“She wants that… girl,” she snaps. “And because you and I fucked, I had to obey, in case you missed that tiny little detail in my blood.”

He ignores her provoking tone. “She wouldn’t really have believed you could retrieve Melody from me. I wonder why she sent you then.”

Blair clenches her teeth. “Oh, she also wants me dead. She counted on you finishing the job, so she doesn’t have to make her own hands dirty. Wouldn’t look good, you know. Politics…”

She tries not to flinch as his power brushes up against her— that writhing, living monstrosity. So achingly familiar. That power that just imbibed her own.

“Your mothers believe you have a bond with her,” Caryan muses quietly, as if flipping through the pages of her mind all over again while he looks down at the girl in his lap. Gods, her lips are blue.

Blair startles. Caryan wouldn’t hurt them, would he? “You know how they are. Very superstitious,” she answers evasively.

His vicious growl makes every hair on her body stand up. “The seer said the same to you. That your fates are linked. What does that mean?”

Blair makes herself hold his gaze. “I know as much as you. Go consult that seer yourself and try to throttle more answers out of her.”

“Careful, Blair, there is a good chance your mothers are still at that inn.” Fucker.

“True, but I doubt you want to spare one of your lackeys to track them down right now,” she croons back, throwing a significant look at the girl. Not showing any of the panic she’s feeling. Panic that threatens to tear her apart. “You’re running out of time—she’s halfway dead.”

“She will recover,” he answers, as if he needs to convince himself.

Blair lets out a hoarse laugh. “Sure, the way corpses recover. But you can bring her back, so it’s not too bad, right? I mean, when she kicks the bucket.”

Caryan says nothing, but it’s the way his jaw is working. Blair’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, wait… you can’t. Is it because she’s a half-human and your necromancy thing doesn’t work on her? Or because you’re not sure she’d accept your lovely I-bind-you-to-me-in-a-way-like-you-just-have-to-do-everything-I-say-from-now-on-but-hey-you-can-live-that-a-problem-for-you contract.”

“Careful, Blair. I could just finish what I started,” he growls, his eyes shimmering with unspent cruelty.

As if he’d just been waiting for this moment Kyrith gets up, too eager to shed her blood, Blair knows .

“Really, Caryan—you’d let that little elf sucker finish me?” Blair asks, but her eyes hold Kyrith’s as he comes for her. She forces a cold grin onto her lips and turns her head fully to the elf. “If you want a brawl, fine. But at least take the shackles off me and do it the real way. Or are you afraid I might chop off your favorite part this time?”

“Watch it, bitch!” Kyrith crosses the room so fast she expects him to crash into her.

But when she blinks, she finds the warrior feet away, glowering, ties of dark magic restraining him.

Her grin widens and she clicks her tongue. “Look who just put his dog on a leash.”

“Don’t make me regret not killing you, Blair.” Caryan’s voice is low, his eyes pouring night when he looks at her. Gods, how many songs did he ruin for her?

Blair shrugs it off, in vain. “It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t beg for anything. Do it if you feel like it.”

Caryan’s gaze lingers. “Why didn’t you kill her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t feel like it,” she chirps lightly. “Can I have some water now? I’m parched.”

“Where did you get this from?” Kyrith holds up the black Nefarian sword.

“Let me think—oh yes— -why-don’t-you-go-and-fuck-yourself ?”

“I’ll torture it out of you, witch,” Kyrith snarls.

“Yeah? You better keep rolling your eyes like that—maybe you’ll find a brain back there,” Blair hisses back. “Besides, just ask your master. He’ll tell you if he thinks you worthy.”

Kyrith snarls, but she trains her gaze back on Caryan, batting her lashes.

“Water? Pleeease?”

Just then, the girl stirs, and Caryan’s gaze goes back to her, ignoring Blair.

“Oh, great. Yeah, just ignore the witch you used to fuck all night,” she snaps, shaking her head and regretting it instantly because it hurts.

Kyrith saunters over, glaring down at her, a water bottle conjured in his hand. He makes a show of slowly unscrewing it and bringing it to his lips, taking a hearty swig.

He grins when he catches her staring, smacking his lips. “Oh, where are my manners? You’re thirsty too.” The bastard cocks his head, a grin on his face. “Want some? Hm, why not try May I have some water, please, oh my great high lord , witch, and see how that goes,” he purrs. “Or why not see to some of my needs? It’s been a while up here without a woman.”

“I’d rather bite off my own tongue and swallow it,” she snarls.

“I wasn’t talking about your loose tongue. Word has it you spread your legs for anyone,” he snarls right back. “I guess, even for a Nefarian, if that sword you carried is anything to go by.”

“Maybe I had one for dinner—because that’s what I do. I slice pathetic men open and drink their blood as soon as I’ve used them for my needs. So, yes, take off these shackles and see what I can do. You fit right into the mold.”

“You know, Blair, you were average with your magic back then, but now, without your magic, you’re nothing.” Kyrith flashes his teeth, knowing the blow hurt.

She flashes hers right back. “Oh, shut it. I still wear heels bigger than your dick, neck-pricker, with or without magic.”

“Enough of this. Go and do what I asked, Kyrith. I’m tired of your juvenile antics,” Caryan cuts in, another silent command laced with power following his words.

Kyrith curls his lips back in Blair’s direction before he obeys and leaves, unable to ignore the direct order.

With him gone, silence falls over the tent, only the howling outside and the crackling of the fire remaining. Blair’s gaze wanders to the sleeping witcher on the bed, then glides back to the girl in Caryan’s arms.

She’s so pale, pale as the snow outside. Her lips are no longer blue, but almost as colorless as the rest of her.

The girl who saved her life. Twice. Blair shouldn’t care. She tells herself that she doesn’t care. That she wouldn’t like to tear the girl to shreds because of the way Caryan’s looking at her.

Gods, it fucking hurts to see the angel after so many years, and the first thing he does is rip her throat out and cradle that half-human in his arms like she means something to him.

Good. Let Melody die and be gone. Caryan deserves this.

But despite it all, Blair finds herself saying, “You know where we are, right? What Silas does? This cold—it’s not a normal cold. It’s raw, ancient magic, Caryan. Fighting anyone who tries to come closer. Killing everyone who stays too long.”

He looks at her, and Blair continues. “She will die on you, whether you want it or not. Soon. Your own magic can barely stand it. Silas’s magic is draining you, too.” She juts her chin toward the sleeping witcher in the corner. She knows the witcher would never have fallen asleep if it weren’t for the magic burning him out. “I wasn’t kidding when I said before that she’s barely alive. Not much longer and she’ll be dead. You need to take her out of this magic if you want to prevent that.”

Caryan ignores her, looking back down at the girl.

Blair’s eyes turn to slits. “She has barely any pulse left. She’s only half-fae. She can’t stand this cold. She’s going to die.” Her words are sharp, trying to reach the angel. It’s the least she can do for the girl.

Caryan’s lips curl back in a warning, his eyes holding the promise of violence before he says calmly, “I know she will die.”

Ice-cold bastard.

“Is it really worth it, the relics? She can get you the other ones too, but not if she dies—you know it, and I know it too. She’s more useful to you alive than dead!”

Blair’s voice has risen an octave before he cuts her off, his voice grave, his black eyes burning into her. “I need to wait for the storm to subside. As long as it is like this, I can’t fly with her. I wouldn’t be fast enough. It would be too cold.”

Blair starts at what she sees then, what her witch instincts pick up in his tone.

Pain. There’s pain in Caryan’s voice, in his face, in his power even, so clear and bright it’s unmistakable. Not once in all those years, not even when he was in hellish physical pain, had Blair seen him as much as flinch. But right now— he’s suffering.

What the hell? Why?

She’d ponder this later… if there’s a later for her. For now, she says, “Give her your blood.”

“I can’t,” he growls back between clenched teeth.

“Do it or she’ll die,” Blair hisses back unperturbed. He says nothing, and she lets out a snort. “Too fine to give an ordinary girl your blood? Or is it because she’s Ciellara’s daughter? Are you afraid people will learn about it and mock you for it?”

Abyss, how long she’d itched to finally shout at him.

His snarl runs over her skin, throbbing in her still-wounded neck. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Blair.”

“Then don’t fuck around and do it!”

“As I said, I can’t,” he repeats in a way that raises the hair on Blair’s arms.

“Why?” Why indeed? She can’t pinpoint the pain she’s feeling in him, can’t find the source.

But he doesn’t give her an answer. Blair wants to give him a biting rant full of expletives but the girl would die. Is going to die. Blair notices her fading heartbeat.

“She doesn’t have long, Caryan,” she says one more time, somberly, knowing he knows it too.

He seems to hesitate, but then he gently bends Melody’s head back, the way one would give water to an unconscious person. He brings his teeth to his wrist, slicing along his vein, so a spring flood of blood comes gushing out. He holds it against her closed lips, the blood dripping over her chin and neck.

Melody gasps, her lips parting ever so slightly, and the blood flows into her mouth.

Her brown eyes flare open as the magic—Caryan’s magic—violently pulls her back to life.

“More,” he says when Melody tries to wriggle free, realizing what is happening .

Her eyes widen with horror, but Caryan only forces his wrist harder against her lips, forces more blood into her mouth, willing her to swallow.

She does, clearly despite herself. Blair feels Caryan’s magic flaring up in the girl, then Melody’s body goes limp again. But she is no longer unconscious. Her lavender eyelids flutter, and Blair watches with a mixture of fascination and terror as the girl starts to shake her head again, mumbling and whining, as if caught in the middle of a terrifying nightmare.

Caryan watches her too, looking even more pained than before, but not surprised. Blair wonders what the girl’s seeing. From her pleading and whimpering, it can’t be anything good.

“Wake her up,” Blair demands, but Caryan just says, “I can’t.”

It stays like that for hours. Occasionally, Melody whispers some words or a scream cuts through the tent, sending the red-haired warrior startling up from sleep before Melody falls back into that restless semi-slumber.

Blair loses track of time herself, the blue magic eating away at her too, making her tired and woozy. Her healing throat burns, as every layer of skin slowly starts to knit itself back together, her agony catalyzed by her aching, tormenting thirst that lets her, too, drift in and out of sleep.

When she comes to the next time, amber eyes like her own—but with slitted pupils—watch her, embedded in a face she’s seen before. A beautiful face, almost feminine. Then she feels a bottle at her lips, and water flows into her mouth. She’s so grateful she wants to cry. She closes her eyes and gulps it down until the bottle is empty.

“More?” the gentle voice asks, and she just nods.

The red-haired witcher brings another bottle and holds it to her lips, and she downs this one too.

Just then, the tent door flaps open and Kyrith strides in, over to Caryan, who’s sitting in the exact same position he’s been sitting over the last hours, the girl still in his arms, wrapped in his wings, fighting invisible demons. Kyrith watches her for a second, then Caryan, in a way that tells Blair he has never seen Caryan like this either. That he’s worried.

Then he clears his throat, the exhaustion obvious. “I haven’t found anything. But the storm has abated. We might be able to make it up to the peak, Caryan.”

Caryan looks at him, then stands, the girl still in his arms. “No. We return to the Fortress. You go by foot, take the witch with you. I’ll take Melody myself. I’ll meet you there,” he says, not explaining more before leaving the tent.

The witch. That’s all Blair’s become. But had she expected anything else?

Maybe.

Through the flapping door, Blair sees Caryan spread his wings and jump from the cliff, soaring up in the sky.