Page 15

by Grace Goodwin

Chapter One

~ Cleo Rathmore, The Capital ~

“I’d rather kiss an Orc,” I muttered as I ducked behind a cart stacked with pear tarts. “A muddy, tusked, flea-bitten Orc with halitosis and a gambling problem.”

The tart-seller blinked at me and edged his tray farther away.

I gave him a grin and kept moving. I didn’t get far before a crowd of revelers blocked my path, the gasps and pointing fingers forcing me to look up.

I should have known the gods were mocking me the moment I saw the silk banner catch fire.

It wasn’t a large fire—just a flicker of gold licking the edge of the crimson ribbon strung across the archway to the Tournament Court. But still, fire. On a wedding day. An omen, if I believed in such things.

The knot in my gut said not only did I believe, I knew exactly who that bad omen was for…me. Maybe the gods were right. Perhaps I could not outrun my destiny. I sure as hell intended to try.

The flames climbed higher, igniting a second silken banner. A merchant raised the alarm, pointing and shouting for buckets of water. I gasped as a nearby Fae from one of the outer regions waved his hand and suffocated the flames with a sudden whirl of wind. He was gorgeous. Tall. Long, silver hair fell to his waist and his eyes sparkled like amethysts in sunlight. I had no idea what kingdom he was from, but it mattered not.

I wasn’t betrothed to a Fae. Or even a vampire. “Void take me, I’d rather marry a half-wet dog.” I didn’t speak too loudly. Not when there were probably half a dozen werewolves within hearing distance. I’d always found the werewolves who came to the nurses at my orphanage for healing tinctures to have an extremely unpleasant odor, yet even one of those howling beasts would be better than what awaited me if I didn’t manage to escape this city.

A death mage. Dark magic. The most powerful among them were known as Revenants, their magic so black they bound their souls to the dark portal and drained their brides of life to feed the magical gate between worlds. It was said their blood was cold as death itself. Their touch could drain the life from you between on breath and the next. That the shadows themselves fled before them.

Dramatic? Yes. In my experience, rumors like these were always based on a bit of truth.

“I’m no dark mage’s sacrifice.” I said it aloud for what had to be the twentieth time since the death mage’s appearance at the orphanage last night. The Matron hadn’t bothered to warn me, to tell me she’d signed my life away, given me to a complete stranger.

Betrothed. I was to be married to him. Taken to The Spire. Never seen or heard from again. They’d probably stake me to some alter and sacrifice me to The Void. Why else would a powerful mage want someone like me?

No. I refused such a fate.

I pushed through the crush of bodies in the market avenue, ignoring the mingled scents of roasted almonds, perfume oil, and too many sweating nobles packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Music floated through the air like a promise—violins and flutes, laughter and the drumbeat of feet on cobblestones. The hauntingly beautiful voices of the Fae countered the pounding drumbeats of the Orcs on the opposite end of the street. Vampires leered from the shadows, waiting for sunset. Werewolves fought Orcs for prizes in the streets. Every merchant in the realm had made the trip to the capital to sell their goods during the royal wedding. The city held many times the normal population, every inn and tavern full to bursting. The capital was in chaos.

Everyone was celebrating. Laughing. Dancing. Unaware of the quiet death being stitched into my future. Many in the realm believed betrothal to a death mage was a fate worse than death. “Count me among them,” I whispered under my breath as a group wearing the black armor of The Spire walked through the crowd. As always, people parted before them as if afraid of being touched. Cursed. Or worse… noticed.

I backed into the edges of the crowd without making a sound, nearly bumping into a vampire.

“Careful, little one. Stay out of the shadows. Some of us are hungry,” He inhaled slowly, as if I smelled like a freshly baked sweet. “And you smell delicious.” He snapped his fangs at me and slipped inside the nearest building.

Great. The last thing I needed was a hungry vampire’s unwanted attention. One death mage determined to claim me was more than enough trouble for one day. Luckily, my human blood was not high on the list for the bloodthirsty vampire lot, not with so many powerful fae and shifters in town.

I adjusted the hood of my cloak and walked toward the city gates, slipping between vendors hawking fruit-glazed sweetmeats and glass-blown charms. One day. A headstart. That’s all I needed. Just one day to vanish into the noise and color. One day to escape the noose tightening around my throat.

I’d packed everything I owned—three coppers, a frayed velvet book of fairy stories, the blanket I’d been wrapped in when the Matron found me—and placed it in the satchel flung over my shoulder. It would take me until sunset to reach the city walls. I’d sneak past the east gates, climb into the back of a merchant’s wagon heading out of the city, and disappear into the borderlands where I would start over. Make a new life for myself. One where I wasn’t the poor orphan abandoned on the steps as a baby. One where I wasn’t betrothed to a complete stranger who scared the hell out of me.

There was no way—no way—I was marrying him. Allowing him to touch me. Kiss me. Claim me. No.

Jarrik Morren. Death Mage of the Spire. He claimed to be more than a hundred years old, though he looked only a few years older than my twenty summers. His age showed in the hollow darkness of his gaze, the way he stood still as death itself, face void of emotion. As if the Rift behind The Viel had already devoured his soul. And now he wanted to devour mine.

The Matron introduced me to him yesterday. My future husband.

The Matron called his interest in me an “honor,” her beady eyes gleaming as if she were handing me off to a prince instead of a walking tombstone. Jarrik came to the orphanage in full ceremonial black, silent as stone and twice as cold. Tall, sharp-featured, with ink-dark hair braided down his back and a voice that sent goosebumps down my arms—not the good kind. The way he looked at me… it wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even interest. It was calculation.

Something inside me screamed that I was simply a puzzle piece he needed to complete some arcane ritual. A vial of rare blood in a worn dress.

He offered me a smile. It didn’t touch his eyes. And when he reached to touch my hand, something inside me screamed. Recoiled.

No.

I’d smiled. Curtsied. Waited until the sun went down.

Then I started planning my escape.

The crowd grew thicker as I neared the palace courtyard, the heart of the festivities. Nobles in jeweled masks danced through the alleys, trailing ribbons and scandal in equal measure. Children darted between legs, giggling and tossing confetti. Everywhere I looked: life. Color. Magic. It clung to the air like perfume, like a promise that something better waited, if only I could reach it.

Banners hung from balconies above, golden thread catching the light—every house’s sigil, blazing bright in honor of the royal wedding. The Tournament would begin soon. Swordplay, spellcasting, spectacle. Perfect distraction for slipping away.

I ducked into the shadowed archway near the edge of the Court and let myself breathe. So far so good. No one paid me any attention. No alarm bells had been rung. I doubted the Matron even realized I was gone. With any luck, she wouldn’t notice my absence until tomorrow when my betrothed came to collect me and I wasn’t there.

I wasn't brave. Just desperate.

The Death Mage I’d been promised to didn’t strike me as the sort to grant mercy. Once he realized I’d run, he’d send spells to find me. Or worse. Monsters. Hounds. Bounty hunters.

Better to spend the rest of my life on the run than live a life of cold silk and shadowed eyes. I couldn’t bind myself to a man who looked at me like I was already dead.

I refused to become property, no matter how handsome his face or how politely he offered me his hand.

I rubbed at my palm absently, remembering the jarring tingle that crawled over my skin the moment Jarrik touched me. Cold. Empty.

As if I’d summoned him, awareness raced through my blood like someone rang a bell inside my chest. Vibration and resonance sang through me, a song moving through me like an injection of magic. Not warm. Not cold. Whispers. Shadows.

Heat. My body jolted to attention as if a lover had just kissed my lips and pulled me close. I felt desire. Awareness. Need. Awakening. Something warm and terrifying unfurled in my core. Reached out. Wanted.

A pull. A breath against the back of my neck, even though no one stood near me.

My heart stuttered. My nipples pebbled into hard, sensitive peaks. I struggled to pull air into lungs when every breath felt like breathing fire.

I looked up.

He stood atop the high stone wall that ringed the Tournament Court.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His long coat whipped in the wind, black as the void, silver trim catching the sun like blade edges. His hair… it was blue. Deep, midnight sapphire, tied back with a strip of black leather, a few strands loose across his face. A tattoo arced beneath his left eye—delicate, sharp, like a crescent blade dipped in ink.

He wasn’t masked. He didn’t need to be.

He stood like a shadow carved from storm and steel. Unmoving. Watching.

And he was watching me.

I froze.

Our eyes met.

The breath left my lungs in a single, violent exhale.

His eyes were silver, ringed in black. Cold. Ageless. They glowed—not with fire, but with a shimmer like moonlight on bone. I felt… something. A jolt in my chest. A shiver beneath my skin.

Recognition.

It made no sense. I didn’t know him. I’d never seen him before. But some part of me—something buried deep in my blood and my soul—knew him.

Not Jarrik.

This man was not my betrothed, although he wore the armor and markings of a Death Mage from The Spire. He was dangerous, but he was not Jarrik.

He was something else entirely. Older. More powerful.

Something worse.

Something… mine.

I staggered back a step, shaking my head, arguing with myself in disbelief. Denial.

No.

This man was a Death Mage. A Revenant. One of their worst, most powerful. Most feared. The Spire’s crest was fastened at his collar, faintly glowing with sigils I couldn’t read. I knew the stories. I knew what they were. What they could do.

I should run. Hide. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. I should have been afraid.

I was.

But I was also… burning.

My cheeks flushed. My pulse roared in my ears. I hated it—hated that my body responded to him, hated that I didn’t recoil like I had with Jarrik. This one… I wanted to touch. Wanted to feel his skin on mine, his hand fisted in my hair, his cock thrusting deep as I begged for more.

No. No, no, no.

I yanked my hood low over my brow and turned, forced myself to walk fast, nearly running as I pushed into the crowd, determined to disappear.

My thoughts were a whirlwind of denial and confusion, my chest tight, breath uneven. I didn’t want a death mage. I didn’t want a husband. I wanted to be free.

I ran, arms and legs pumping, heart pounding. But I knew it was too late. Something inside me had awakened, something dark and needy. Long forgotten. That part of me had looked into the eyes of a stranger—and seen itself reflected back.