Page 14 of The Stolen Bride (Kings of Fury #2)

Chapter

Fourteen

Rage On! Handling the Heat When Others Can’t

–HOW TO TRAIN YOUR BERSERKER

By Elizabeth “Elle” Darcy-Bruce

I couldn’t stay here.

My brain screamed, Find Viktor . Yes, yes. Viktor. He was the difference maker, and he was alive. I refused to believe otherwise. Think about it. He’d survived centuries at war with the shifters; a rushing river didn’t have the power to end him. And he wouldn’t abandon me on purpose. He absolutely would not. Even though I’d spoken of running again.

My stomach twisted. What if he hoped to prove a point? Let me wander about on my own until I admitted how desperately I needed him.

No, that wasn’t his style. He liked to keep his “mine” close. There was a greater chance the vargbane root had screwed with his immortality .

Oh no! I’d forgotten about the root. What if he truly had died?

High octane trepidation and sorrow leaked from the cracks in my bottles. Tears welled and dropped, blurring my vision. Sniffling, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. Even the thought of being without Viktor shredded me.

What are you doing? Enough! There was no reason to borrow trouble. Vik wasn’t dead, and that was that. I would hide and heal, and he would find me. Plan made. As I lumbered to my feet, pain and weakness nearly felled me. With sheer determination, I persevered and reclaimed the dagger.

Hemorrhaging what little strength I possessed at record speed, I stumbled forward. I kept my wadded up shirt pressed into my wound with one hand and clutched my weapon with the other, ready to defend myself from any shifter I stumbled upon.

I crested a hill, my knees almost buckling with relief when I spotted a village. A village meant food, warmth, and maybe even rudimentary medical care.

Kicking up snow behind me, I charged forward as fast as my abused body allowed. Hmm. Frost clung to the cracked, weathered walls of abandoned cottages. A door to a former store creaked on its hinge, ominous in the wintry wind. Its roof was partially caved in under the weight of ice and dead leaves.

Okay, so, this wasn’t the safe space I’d imagined. But maybe that was a good thing. Residents might have gladly turned me over to Deco.

With a tired sigh, I exited the village and plodded forward. A gust of glacial wind hit my face, but the bite didn’t sting quite as much as I expected. Maybe my senses were dulling as I neared death .

A humorless laugh bubbled up.

“What’s so funny, baba?” an unfamiliar voice called.

Ack! Shifter! I scanned ahead. A turul perched high in a tree. He watched me with a wicked grin, his dark hair slicked back, his features sharp. “I’m not your baby,” I grated.

“You’ll never escape us,” he taunted, as smug as Deco.

Fury sparked. Don’t waste energy engaging with the enemy . I hurried on as fast as my abused body allowed. Not that I made it far before spotting another shifter. And another. And another. They lurked everywhere and none missed the opportunity to threaten me.

“I’m gonna love ripping you open.”

“Are you a screamer? I’m excited to find out.”

“I like your face. Maybe I’ll wear it.”

I kept going, my fury burning hotter and hotter. But it wasn’t my usual fury. There was a righteous tinge to it. Like, how dare they think they had any power over me. I was Clover Deering, firebrand to a king. The king.

Bottles shook. Soon, my blood graduated from a low simmer to a high boil. To my immense surprise, each new level of heat strengthened me, making my steps surer. The pain dimmed before vanishing completely. I glanced down. Blood no longer dripped from my wound. The edges had even begun to knit together and close.

What! Was I actually healing supernaturally? Oh, not as quickly as the berserkers on the battlefield, but far swifter than humanly possible.

Malachi’s proclamation whispered through my mind. I am now King of the House of Griffin, and you are one of my people.

Viktor’s confession followed. You are of sentinel blood. Griffin.

Well, well, well. I tugged my crimson-stained shirt into place. How fitting. Look at the blood-soaked dog groomer who also happened to be part berserker. Excuse me, sentinel. Exactly as Malachi and Viktor had claimed.

Maybe I didn’t need to hide from the turul-shifters. Or my emotions. I could do battle. And what better place to do so than the camp where Viktor and his men had worked so hard to mount a defense? But which direction was it?

Even when the last bit of light snuffed out, I kept going, listening for the river. Dried leaves and snow crunched beneath my boots, blending with the haunting call of owls and other critters I didn’t want to know about.

Glowing red eyes seemed to hover here and there, there, there. I tightened my grip on the dagger. How good was a turul-shifter’s night vision?

I entered a silvery, moonlit clearing and ground to a halt, struck by a bolt of shock. Ten shifters waited on the other side, standing wing to wing, forming a wall of menace. Nine males and one female, each a picture of confident power. The worst part? Four of those males were former elites, exactly as advertised. They pawed at the ground with their bare feet, almost as feral as Viktor had once been. Unlike their former king, they couldn’t contain their desire to kill me.

Outrage consumed the whole of my being, my bottles shaking harder. “How can you do this? You were chosen by him. Trusted.”

They didn’t seem to register my words.

I couldn’t blame Deco for this. No matter what he’d done, these men had always had a choice. Welcome the evil or fight it. They’d caved. But I would punish Deco for it. Soon. First, I must survive this encounter.

The guy in the middle—the jerk who’d expressed a desire to wear my face—popped the bones in his neck. “King Deco has realized it’ll be more fun if Viktor comes out of hiding and finds his future queen scattered throughout the forest. We concur.”

I hurled past the future queen comment. So they’d found no sign of Viktor either. That wasn’t good. Deeper cracks spread through my bottles. If anyone deserved to feel the sting of my wrath…

Then. That moment. A bottle shattered. Then another and another. An icy inferno of rage deluged my entire body, and a red haze enveloped my mind. My senses heightened.

Suddenly, the fine hairs on my neck and arms detected a slight alteration in the direction of the breeze. The first of many changes I experienced. Before, I might have only noticed the pine fragrance of the trees and the sweat from the shifters. But now I scented their emotions. Hatred proved strongest, as acrid and sharp as sulfur.

My sights constricted to the threat before me. The pulse beat at their necks. The narrowing of their pupils. The bracing of their muscles. My own muscles bunched, ready for action. If a fight was what they wanted, it was a fight they’d get.

I didn’t care that I was outnumbered and outgunned. I was glad for it. More shifters to kill. And I wanted to kill. I no longer saw living beings, but shadowy prey. Ten featureless targets.

The rest of the world ceased to exist.

I purred, “When I kill you, and I will, I’ll use your bones to build my first throne.” My voice! It was mine, but not. Deeper, throatier, with the hint of a second speaker.

The goad hit its target: their control. Amid grunts, growls and huffing breaths, the shifters surged forward, teeth and claws bared. As they erased the distance between us, I sprinted to meet them in the middle, running faster than ever before. I could almost taste death— needed to taste it.

Just before reaching the strike zone, I leaped into the air as if I had wings of my own. An action no one expected. My aim: the soldier in the center. I slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Before I registered a command from my mind, I plunged my dagger into his eye. His throat. Heart. Except, the blade got stuck in his throat and I ended up driving my fist through his chest. Driven by instinct, I wrapped my fingers around his heart and yanked.

His back bowed, and he roared. Then he went still and silent.

I felt zero emotion as I dropped what I held and whipped my attention to the others. First, they stopped, obviously confused. When they spotted what remained of their teammate, they comprehended what just happened. Any remaining hint of amusement evaporated.

Must I remove his head, too, to truly end his immortality? Might as well, just to be sure the death took. But that would happen a little later.

I gave the remaining nine a smile and a nod. ‘Come hither’ in berserkerspeak.

With snarls and high-pitched calls, they converged on me.

Once again, I moved without conscious thought. Ducking. Dodging. Spinning. Kicking. Biting. Elbowing. Always slashing my claws with abandon. As flesh tore beneath the razored tips, hot blood splashed over my skin. The elixir of life. Animalistic noises rose from me.

If a turul-shifter injured me, even once, I didn’t feel it. Was this what Viktor and his men experienced in a berserkerage? Sign me up for more, because I never wanted it to end. With every kill, the ice cold reshaped into sublime pleasure. By the time the last shadow fell, motionless, I floated on a bed of euphoria. But. No more? I needed more! Now, now, now.

I spun, searching, searching—there! Another featureless target. I might have grinned. I did walk…jog…run toward it. But wait. A golden light flickered from the darkness. My steps slowed. And that fragrance. Familiar. Comforting. I stopped and canted my head. The flickers grew brighter and wider and lasted longer.

Inside me, the ice melted, downgrading my euphoria to curiosity. What was this? Oh! A man. A very large man. With white hair, green eyes, and harsh features set in an expression of ragged concern.

As soon as his identity clicked, the remaining red haze broke apart and lifted. Viktor! He was alive and well. Crying out, I threw myself into his powerful body. He caught me, wrapping his muscular arms around me and holding on as if he feared I might fly away.

“Where were you?” I demanded. “What happened?”

He buried his nose in the hollow of my neck and inhaled. “My head hit a rock in the river, and I was dragged into another coma-like state. Since I’m the first in history to wake from vargbane root, I didn’t realize I’d have to fight my way free of it when next I slept. This time, I drowned over and over before I woke.” He shuddered against me.

I pulled back only far enough to cup his face and— sweet golden doodle ! My hands. They were covered in blood, and I’d smeared him with it.

I tried to wipe his cheek, but only added more crimson. Horrified, I wrenched from him and stared down at my hands. My mother’s most prevailing warning whispered through my mind. What you do in a temper cannot be undone when you calm.

I squeezed my eyes tight, remembering her broken arm and my vow to never get angry in such a way again. Dragging in a shuddering breath, I geared to look over my shoulder and survey the battlefield.

“Do not,” Viktor commanded, and I went still, my body obeying him of its own volition.

Stiffness invaded my limbs. What had I done, what had I done? “I moved without thought. Or training! I…I…” I’d taken down ten accomplished and trained soldiers as if we were children playing a game.

“That is the sentinel instinct, and yours is stronger than most. Listen to me,” he added. Another command. He’d never used such a sharp tone with me, even upon our initial meeting. “You experienced your first break. Any moment, you will become extremely fatigued. Do not fight it. Understand?”

No, I didn’t understand, thank you very much. How could he know what I’d—all at once, my muscles gave out. I sagged, and he caught me, ensuring my head rested on his shoulder.

Sleep crooked its finger at me, but panic refused the invitation. I needed to move my body or, or, or. I didn’t know! Couldn’t think. Wanted…must… Argh!

“Shh, now,” Viktor comforted, combing his fingers through my hair. He carried me to the river, cooing all the while.

As he tenderly cleaned off my battle gore, my brain blipped. The perfect opening for calm, which created the perfect opening for sleep. Lights flipped out one by one.

He finished up and swept me into his arms once again. “There’s a good Love. Just let yourself drift away. ”

Yes. Drift away. What a wonderful idea. “’Night, Tor,” I murmured, greeting the darkness with a smile. Then came the nothingness. No dreams, no present, and no future.

I awakened gradually, blinking open my eyes. Cocooned in warmth, I dragged in Viktor’s scent. Pine needles, forest dew and roses. Mmm. How I loved being in his arms. I stretched out on my side, cuddling deeper into him as he slept on.

Wait. Memories huffed at the edge of my thoughts, reminding me of bulls champing at the bit to throw a cowboy to the ground and stomp his bones to powder. They bucked themselves to center stage, one after the other. The bugs. The river. Deco. His promise to send his men after me. My break and the aftermath. Viktor’s reappearance. Everything except the atrocities I committed on the battlefield.

How vividly I recalled the berserker king’s worn expression, though, and shuddered. Did he know four of his men were among the dead, thanks to me? He must. He was a details guy.

At least I didn’t have to worry about being hunted by traitors. But. My bottles. They were gone. I was raw inside. Vulnerable in a way I’d never been, battered by emotions I’d denied for far too long. Guilt, shame, fear. More anger.

Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t try to rebottle everything, just let it all flow through me.

Eventually, I eased up, doing my best not to jar my companion. A fire raged in a crumbling hearth a few feet away, woodsmoke filling…I gazed ar ound. A cabin. Above me, a roof sagged from the weight of time, gaps in the planks revealing patches of sky. Viktor must have carried me back to the abandoned village and found a place for me to sleep off the aftermath of my berserkerage. I mentally punched myself for giving him one more burden, especially after he’d battled against the effects of the vargbane root not once, but twice.

Needing reassurance that my sister had lived through the night, I lifted my hand to activate the ring. To be honest, I was also a teensy bit curious to learn if Deco raged over the loss of his ten warriors at the hands of a berserker novice.

Oh no! The ring was gone. I patted my pockets. Not there. Had I lost it when I broke? I must have. My shoulders rolled in, and I blinked back another round of tears. Argh! I hated, hated, hated this new emotional Clover. And now, Juniper couldn’t contact me.

Movement drew my attention to the side, and dread slapped me. A scene played over the walls, like a movie projected onto a screen. Viktor had sunk into another vargbane root coma. Would this happen every time he slept now? Poor Viktor. I stroked his fevered cheek. At least I knew he could battle his way free, both with and without me.

What scene did he showcase today? With both anticipation and regret, I left the warmth of his side, stood and tiptoed over for a closer study. Hmm. Okay. I pressed my palm over my roiling belly. I doubted he meant to broadcast this one. He stood in front of a stunningly beautiful woman with strawberry blond hair and clear blue eyes. She wore a royal gown of shimmering emerald, a match to his eyes. The bodice sparkled with countless tiny gemstones while the skirt billowed around her ankles. A crown of gold adorned with glimmering jewels rested atop her head. She grazed the tips of her nails over Viktor’s bare chest.

My back stiffened. A former love interest?

The projected Viktor gave a sharp shake of his head and backed up. A negation to whatever she’d said as well as her touch. The refusal didn’t deter her, and she tugged at the buttons of her bodice. Scowling, he gave another shake of his head and seemed to bark curses at her. She only worked the buttons faster. He reached out to stop her.

A wingless Deco strode into the room, spotted them, and blanched. When he gained his bearings, he stormed their way.

Oooh. This must have occurred before he’d signed on for Team Evil.

He got in Viktor’s face and shouted. Viktor shouted right back. Small pinpricks of red dotted Deco’s irises, soon forming a ring. Then another and another, until his eyes glowed. Within seconds, Deco launched at Viktor, swiping and snarling, wings budding from his back. The shifter king fought with the intention of murder while Viktor defended, never delivering a killing blow. Though he could have. Multiple times. I imagined growls echoing as the pair clashed in a primal rage.

In the wild frenzy, they slammed into the beauty—and she did not survive the encounter. She dropped, blood trickling from her mouth, her eyes dulling until no life remained inside them.

The men froze, the wrath between them momentarily forgotten. Then Deco dove to his knees and did everything in his power to patch her wounds. But he failed.

My hand fluttered to my throat as the war between the two men began to make sense. Deco’s desire to hurt Viktor’s firebrand, whatever the cost. Viktor’s resistance to end his enemy. One sought vengeance, the other redemption.