Page 39 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

My legs are wobbly, like the floor’s gone to sand, and I hold myself up against the plaster wall of the witch’s hut. There’s a dent here, and my shoulder’s aching something fierce, but other details come at me stronger:

Alyth, tears streaking down her face.

Moyra, grabbing a potion vial from her table and taking an attack stance.

I don’t move. My heart’s throbbing in my neck and fingertips, and I don’t think I’ve taken a full breath yet. But I stay rigid, half slumped against the wall.

“What did I do?” I whisper.

But I already know.

Because I recognize this moment.

It’s Oskar and Hal in Southwark. It’s dozens of moments layering one atop the other across my life: coming back to consciousness with people cowering away from me.

I blacked out.

Did I attack Alyth?

My eyes race over her, but she’s not injured. Neither is Moyra. And the room’s not trashed, except for the cracked wall and bits of plaster on the floor. So—did they manage to restrain me? ’Course they did. Alyth, powerful as she is, and Moyra too. They handled me.

But they’re still gawking at me with terror in their eyes, and it’s all I can do not to launch myself out of this hut and run off into the bog.

I thought I was close to a solution here. I thought Moyra could help me .

She can’t, can she?

No one’s looked at me like that in Scotland. Alyth, Callum, even Mary—not one person has looked at me like that. And seeing that expression on Alyth’s face, fear, has my stomach lurching up into my throat, and I topple forward, landing hard on my knees.

“I’m sorry,” I say, tears heating my eyes, tears of hatred and hurt and exhaustion. “I blacked out, didn’t I? I blacked out, and you saw my curse? Christ, I’m so sorry, I—”

“No, Samson.”

Alyth’s voice doesn’t bear any of the fear I saw in her eyes. Through my own watery gaze, I realize it isn’t terror on her face.

It’s grief.

“You’re not cursed,” she tells me.

“I—” I shift to Moyra, who’s still holding her potion like a weapon, poised to attack me. “What do you mean?”

“Your blackouts aren’t because of a fae curse,” Alyth tells me. “Your blackouts are you. You’re a Red Cap. The High Blade themself talked through you.”

White shock stuns me, taking my senses and numbing them hard.

I blink up at Alyth, shaking my head slowly, remembering everything she told me about Red Caps, about the High Blade.

“No—they’re not allowed in Scotland,” I try.

“I know.”

“I—I’m not a monster. I’m not a—you said they’re monstrous, Alyth. You said they hunger for blood and draw strength on violence and—that’s not me.”

It can’t be me.

This whole time, it’s been the curse; it’s been something beyond my control, something forced on me, something I could fix.

My heart rate spikes, my breathing too, and I gotta calm down, but I can’t. Can’t catch this runaway horror rising in my chest.

Alyth’s expression changes to something that looks a damn sight close to pity.

“It’s me?” I state, face collapsing in disgusted horror.

It’s not a curse. My blackouts, the way I hurt people—it’s not a curse that can be removed.

My vision blurs, eyes flickering hard and not seeing anything. Hope had set me up so high in such a short time, wobbling precariously atop a pillar, and I ignored the drop because I thought I had salvation at long last.

But now?

I’m falling off that pillar. Plummeting straight down, right back to where I was: having to accept that this is who I am, a part of me I can never remove. Only the impact of thudding back down into that reality is crushing me. I know now what it was like to get so close to rising above.

But this is me. This monstrous, unpredictable curse.

Not a curse.

Just me.

“Enough of this,” Moyra snaps. “Kill him, Alyth, or I will.”

Alyth whirls around, glaring at the witch. “You forget your place,” she snarls. “I am the Leth guardian, and you are not fae. Do not attempt to force my hand or my blade again.”

Moyra’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything. She also doesn’t lower that potion bottle.

I hadn’t connected that yet.

That me being a Red Cap means Alyth’s duty is to kill me.

Moyra rolls her eyes but keeps her potion vial locked in her fist. “Here I expected a mighty fight. A Red Cap, after centuries of silence. And you’re not going to gut him? Psh. Dull girl.”

“Hey,” I snap before I can think better of it. “Leave her alone.”

Moyra looks at me like she’d forgotten I’m capable of speech. “Careful, English Red Cap. Don’t get angry with me now. Hate to see Alyth have to change her mind about sparing you.”

“Don’t call her things, then,” I say. “She’s sacrificed more in her life to keep you safe than you’ve likely done in however many years you’ve been kicking around. I don’t understand much of this world so far, but I understand her, and I’ll not stand here and let you mock her anymore!”

My hands are fisted, my hackles raised. I’m panting where I’m still kneeling on the floor, and all the tension is now pushing outward, at Moyra .

Fury prickles at the edge of my consciousness. I could give in; I could surrender, let the anger take me.

My blackouts always came when I was livid. I’d come to having decimated someone.

That was because I’m a Red Cap.

It’s who I am.

The thought of it again— this is who I am —chokes off my anger in a rush. I don’t want to be this. I don’t want to be this —so much so that the ache overpowers my flare of rage, and I rub at my chest, hating myself, slumped on the ground.

Moyra grins at me. “Good on you. Just because you’re a Red Cap doesn’t mean you have to be a mindless killing machine, does it?” She cocks her head. Then repeats, harder, “Does it?”

My nose curls. “No.”

Moyra looks at Alyth. “Hm. Is that your play? Easier to fight the Red Caps if you’ve got one trained at your heel?”

That makes Alyth, who’d been staring down at me, snap her head up. “Thank you, Moyra. Our bargain is complete. Nothing else is owed.”

She’s glaring at Moyra, her jaw bulging.

Moyra smiles again, a knife’s edge to it. “All right, lass. If you need me, you know how to find me.” She turns that smile on me, all teeth and taunting. “Have fun.”

I blink.

And the hut’s gone.

We’re outside again, in the middle of the bog, winter air frigid around us. The sun’s lower in the sky now, and somewhere, a bird caws lonesomely.

Alyth doesn’t move. I’m kneeling in frozen grass now at her feet, and I stay in that position.

I see her mind working; she’s watching me in that way she gets, reading my aura.

She’s…calm.

Too calm.

She’s wanted to kill me more times than not. When she brought Kitty and the brownies to my room and they held me to the wall, I saw my end in her eyes.

An end I rightfully deserve.

If I’m this dangerous. If what I do isn’t something that can be removed from me. If I’m a Red Cap, something I’m not even sure I entirely understand yet, but I’ve seen their weapons, seen their handiwork. I’ve been their handiwork, apparently.

I exhale, stuttering and sharp, and nod once. It’s all the strength I have left in me.

“It’s all right,” I manage through my dry throat. “It’s all right, Alyth. I know what you have to do.”

I rest my hands palm up on my thighs, and a tear burns its way down my cheek.

A long moment of silence falls. I swear even the wind goes quiet.

Alyth stares down at me, all hardened stone. Resolve, that’s what she is. Resolve to do what she must.

“And what do you think I have to do?” she asks, still too bloody calm.

I frown up at her. “You have to—” I get stuck on the word but force it out anyway. “You have to kill me. I’m the enemy—”

“Are you?” Alyth lurches closer, the first show of something other than that confusing calmness.

“Are you my enemy? Because you’ve promised me repeatedly you’re not.

You wanted to work with me. You convinced me to let you help, and you’ve done nothing to counter that from the very beginning.

You swore yourself to me. Are you, Samson, a threat to me? ”

It’s demanding. Harsh and biting. I can’t do anything but answer.

“No,” I say softly. “But—”

“Then that’s settled,” Alyth tells me, all matter-of-fact, but the tears in her eyes let me know she’s barely holding on.

“What?” I gasp. “Why?”

Instead of explaining, she pulls the letter out of her cloak. The oddness of it has me flinching. Damn near forgot about the bloody thing. What’s it matter now? Nothing else does.

Slowly, numbly, I push to my feet. “Alyth—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, not looking at me. She unfolds the letter to read it. The parchment shakes in her grip. She’s fighting hard to focus on the words.

“Alyth—you’ve been nothing but duty bound in all the time I’ve known you. I may not be a threat myself, but this Red Cap side of me? I can’t control it, and that is a threat. I’m dangerous. I know it. You know it. Fine, don’t kill me, but—restrain me. Or I’ll leave, go back to London. Or—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” She yanks the letter down at her side and thrusts up against me, grabbing hold of my doublet’s collar, but she doesn’t shove me away. She just stands there, staring at the hollow of my throat.

I swallow, cold sweat dampening my brow, shivers chasing each other across my skin.

“Why?” I ask again. Clouds are dragging gray and blue black over the sky, shadowing Alyth’s face. But her eyes—those all-seeing eyes. They track through mine, and I’m struck speechless and immobile by the way she’s watching me.

Not with fear. Not with sorrow. Not with disgust.

With…greed. Like a hunger. And she laughs a little, like the emotion’s taking her by surprise, or maybe she’s just never let herself feel it before.

Her grip on my doublet is keeping me close.

“Because I’m tired, Samson,” she tells me. “I’m tired of choosing only my duty, only being a guardian.” She sucks in a breath, runs her tongue over her lower lip, and I about croon at the sight. “I want to choose this too.”

Before I can ask what this means, she’s pushing up onto her toes and kissing me again.