Page 46 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

ASAR

I did not sleep.

The last time I’d let Mische drink directly from me, it had sapped my energy so much that I hadn’t even been able to hold off Elias’s common guards.

Now, I wasn’t nearly so affected. The weakness faded quickly.

When I changed my clothes, I noticed the smooth skin on my torso—the wound Elias had inflicted in his last moments was gone. Fast healing by even vampire standards.

It surprised me. No matter what I said to reassure Mische, I’d been sure her feeding would affect me. But I wouldn’t question a blessing, especially not with a Bloodborn stranger showing up at our door any minute.

Still, I wished I could rest. Mische sprawled out on the bed, snoring—and I loved that horrific, deafening sound, because it was so messily alive.

It was honestly charming to me that, wraith or no, Mische still snored.

She had gotten up some time ago to throw on some fresh clothes—despite my protests—only to immediately fall back into bed.

Now, she wound herself around Luce, who had gotten up sometime in the day to join her.

Mische looked healthier now. The snoring, at least, was a good sign. She had desperately needed the blood. Still, I noted with some concern that she hadn’t seemed to gain quite as much life as she had the last time she drank. She was still faintly translucent.

I turned back to the table before me.

To the mask that sat atop it.

It was everything I had expected an object that captured the very essence of a god to be. Which was to say, beautiful and horrifying. The kind of thing that, under any other circumstances, I would insist should never be handled by mortal souls.

And yet. Here I was.

{Here we are,} a voice whispered, fleeting as a distant wind. {Seizing destiny.}

I pushed the voice away.

God-touched artifacts were known to be dangerous, not just for their power to destroy, but also to those who wielded them. Mische and I had both witnessed that firsthand over the years. I was prepared for what I was dealing with.

I could have sworn I heard an amused laugh at that.

But I stood abruptly, sliding the mask back into the bag. My attention turned to an approaching presence outside the door. Then heavy footsteps.

A powerful knock rang out—two decisive raps.

Mische flew upright, curly hair so messy it formed a halo around her head. Luce jumped up and bolted to the door, barking like mad.

“I prefer to only knock once,” a low voice came from the other side.

I went to the door, Mische close behind.

When I opened it, a Bloodborn man stared back at me.

I knew, instantly, that this was Septimus’s cousin.

They shared similar angular facial features, but while Septimus’s were cold and elegant, this man exuded unfinished ruggedness.

He wore fine, traditional Bloodborn clothing like Septimus did—a white suit with red accents—but while Septimus’s appearance was immaculate, this man’s was wrinkled, the collar unbuttoned, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

His stare was hard and piercing, his hair long and silver, messily half bound up.

A heavy sword was strapped across his back.

Most interesting of all, he had horns.

They were black, and started shortly above his hairline, curling back toward his skull. The scholar in me couldn’t help but stare at them. I’d spent a lifetime studying magical curiosities, but I had never seen anything like this before. How, I had to wonder, had he gotten those?

The man swept a cold, analytical gaze over me. From that look alone, I’d bet he was some kind of military leader, because he assessed me like I was an opponent to be dismantled.

I slipped through his mind as if shuffling a deck of cards.

He was well trained against Shadowborn magic, keeping the sharpest specifics of his thoughts guarded beyond my reach.

But I saw enough. He was, indeed, a general—countless images of battle and destruction confirmed that, so engrained into his psyche that he couldn’t have hidden them even if he’d tried.

I saw an island and a rocky shore, a palace nestled in the snow, and?—

I paused in surprise.

The faces of goddesses. Nyaxia, which was not surprising, given what Septimus had told us. But Acaeja, too, which was very surprising.

Interesting. A Bloodborn who had encountered the White Pantheon.

“Atrius,” the man said stiffly. “Your guide.”

He didn’t exactly seem pleased to be here.

Mische started to introduce herself, but Atrius said, “I know who you are.” Then, as if that was all the greeting he needed, he went on, “Forgive me if I’m not much for pleasantries. We have a long journey ahead. Our boat is waiting.”

The boat was smaller than the one we’d arrived on, little more than a dinghy. It turned out our temporary holding cell had been on a small island, within a lighthouse.

“Not far to shore,” Atrius grunted, and we bobbed along on the choppy surf. It was a cool night. My breath and Atrius’s froze to ghost-pale plumes with every exhale. Mische’s did not, and I found myself lingering on it.

She looked out at the lights dotting the approaching shore.

The moonlight illuminated a few buildings.

The House of Blood’s style of architecture stood in stark contrast to the smooth marble domes of the House of Night or the twisted iron spires of the House of Shadow, all red-painted roofs with sloping, curved peaks and gold accents that glittered under the icy moonlight like streaks of blood.

The House of Blood had the harshest climate of the three Houses, the terrain largely rough and mountainous, and progressively colder and snowier as one traveled north.

Few had anything positive to say about the House of Blood, but the few times I’d been here, I did have to admire it.

I’d always thought it was beautiful in the same way that Morthryn was—a little ugly, a little marked by all the ways it had been dragged back down to the dirt, but forever standing in defiance.

“Is that the capital?” Mische asked.

Atrius scoffed. “No. That’s an outpost town. The capital makes this look like a village.”

“What’s it like?”

“I haven’t been there in a very long time.” He said this flatly, but I felt a hint of longing with the words.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Traveling. We’ll stop here to get supplies. And then we will start our journey north.”

I glanced at Mische, and the faint, faint glimmer of night I could see through her skin.

“How long will it be?” I asked.

“Are you concerned about time?”

“We don’t have much of it to waste. Certainly not enough for detours.”

I eyed his sword, which he’d laid across the bottom of the boat as he rowed.

Mische and I had taken every measure to ensure that Septimus wasn’t lying about his promises. But I was no fool. No matter how well constructed a deal was, I knew there were countless ways Atrius could manipulate the bounds of an agreement.

He laughed softly. “I’m not planning on killing you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I have no reason to do such a thing.”

“You don’t have much of a reason to help us, either.”

“I have always left the silver words and pretty deals to my cousin. He calls me when he’s ready to act, and I do.”

“So you really have been to the deadlands?” Mische asked quietly.

“Yes.”

I knew the onslaught of questions was coming before she opened her mouth.

“Why were you there? What did you do there? What was it like?” She said them all so quickly, as if they all warred for dominance.

“I was there by the bidding of the Dark Mother,” he said flatly. “We did whatever she requested of us. And you will see what it’s like for yourself soon.”

The bidding of the Dark Mother. Interesting.

The chill in his presence left no mystery to how he now felt about it. It had gone poorly. No surprise to me. The House of Blood’s relationship with Nyaxia had always been fraught. That was the tricky thing about worshipping the one who had damned you.

We arrived at the docks and Atrius handed over the boat to some waiting workers. “Put your hoods up,” Atrius said. “The Bloodborn aren’t kind to outsiders.”

No objections here. It was better if we didn’t attract attention.

The town smelled of salt and iron—the sea and the mountains and blood.

It was built closely packed together. The moment we stepped onto the shore, I sensed that this was an old place, a city that certainly long predated the existence of vampires.

The Bloodborn had clearly tried to maintain its former glory, but it still showed the strain of millennia of struggle.

Stone walls were cracked and patched and cracked again.

The gold metalwork that trimmed the red-painted peaks of the buildings was chipped, and in some places, missing altogether.

And though we kept our hoods up like Atrius commanded, we still earned wary stares.

Villagers stopped in the middle of their sweeping or cleaning or forging or feeding to watch as we passed.

The Bloodborn, some said, could smell outsiders.

Atrius led us deep into the city, to an unmarked door in an unmarked stone building.

When he ushered us inside, the scent of blood struck me with such intensity that it made my steps falter.

The hunger that I’d been tamping down—shockingly strong, despite the fact that I’d practically gorged myself at Egrette’s party in preparation for this journey—roared back with a powerful surge.