Still, Rhy moved like a ghost among them. Unseen. Unsensed. No footsteps followed him through the streets. No hands sought to drag him into the river. No mobs tried to sicken him with shadow.
The poisoned fog parted for the prince, slipped around him like water around a stone.
Was it Kell’s life shielding him from harm? Or was it the absence of Rhy’s own? The fact that there was nothing left for the darkness to claim?
“Get inside,” he called to the fevered, but they could not hear him.
“Get back,” he shouted at the fallen, but they did not listen.
The madness surged around him, and Rhy tore himself away from the breaking city and turned his sights again to his quest for the captain of the Night Spire.
There were only two places Alucard Emery would go: his family estate or his ship.
Logic said he’d go to the house, but something in Rhy’s gut sent him in the opposite direction, toward the docks.
He found the captain on his cabin floor.
One of the chairs by the hearth had been toppled, a table knocked clean of glasses, their glittering shards scattered in the rug and across the wooden floor. Alucard—decisive, strong, beautiful Alucard—lay curled on his side, shivering with fever, his warm brown hair matted to his cheeks with sweat. He was clutching his head, breath escaping in ragged gasps as he spoke to ghosts.
“Stop … please …” His voice—that even, clear voice, always brimming with laughter—broke. “Don’t make me …”
Rhy was on his knees beside him. “Luc,” he said, touching the man’s shoulder.
Alucard’s eyes flashed open, and Rhy recoiled when he saw them filled with shadows. Not the even black of Kell’s gaze, but instead menacing streaks of darkness that writhed and coiled like snakes through his vision, storm blue irises flashing and vanishing behind the fog.
“Stop,” snarled the captain suddenly. He struggled up, limbs shaking, only to fall back against the floor.
Rhy hovered over him, helpless, unsure whether to hold him down or try to help him up. Alucard’s eyes found his, but looked straight through him. He was somewhere else.
“Please,” the captain pleaded with the ghosts. “Don’t make me go.”
“I won’t,” said Rhy, wondering who Alucard saw. What he saw. How to free him. The captain’s veins stood out like ropes against his skin.
“He’ll never forgive me.”
“Who?” asked Rhy, and Alucard’s brow furrowed, as if he were trying to see through the fog, the fever.
“Rhy—” The sickness tightened its hold, the shadows in his eyes streaking with lines of light like lightning. The captain bit back a scream.
Rhy ran his fingers over Alucard’s hair, took his face in his hands. “Fight it,” he ordered. “Whatever’s holding you, fight it.”
Alucard folded in on himself, shuddering. “I can’t….”
“Focus on me.”
“Rhy …” he sobbed.
“I’m here.” Rhy Maresh lowered himself onto the glass-strewn floor, lay on his side so they were face-to-face. “I’m here.”
He remembered, then. Like a dream flickering back to the surface, he remembered Alucard’s hands on his shoulders, his voice cutting through the pain, reaching out to him, even in the dark.
I’m here now, he’d said, so you can’t die.
“I’m here now,” echoed Rhy, twining his fingers through Alucard’s. “And I’m not letting go, so don’t you dare.”
Another scream tore from Alucard’s throat, his grip tightening as the lines of black on his skin began to glow. First red, then white. Burning. He was burning from the inside out. And it hurt—hurt to watch, hurt to feel so helpless.
But Rhy kept his word.
He didn’t let go.
VIII
Kell stormed toward the western foyer, following the sounds of a brewing fight.
It was only a matter of time before the mood in the palace turned. Before the magicians refused to sit and wait and watch the city fall. Before someone took it in their head to act.
He threw open the doors and found Hastra standing before the western entrance, royal short sword clutched in both hands, looking like a cat facing down a line of wolves.
Brost, Losen, and Sar.
Three of the tournament’s magicians—two Arnesians and a Veskan—competitors now aligned against a common foe. Kell expected as much from Brost and Sar, two fighters with tempers to match their size, but Kisimyr’s protégé, Losen, was built like a willow, known for his looks as much as his budding talent. Gold rings jingled in his black hair, and he looked out of place between the two oaks. But bruises stained the skin beneath his dark eyes, and his face was grey from grief and lack of sleep.
“Get out of the way,” demanded Brost.
Hastra stood resolute. “I cannot let you pass.”
“On whose orders?” snapped Losen, his voice hoarse.
“The royal guard. The city guard. The king.”
“What is this?” demanded Kell, striding toward them.
“Stay out of it, Antari,” snarled Sar without turning. She stood even taller than Brost, her Veskan form filling the hall, a pair of axes strapped to her back. She’d fallen to Lila in the opening round, spent the rest of the tournament sulking and drinking, but now her eyes were full of fire.
Kell stopped at their backs, relying on their fighters’ instincts to make them turn. It worked, and through the forest of their limbs, he saw Hastra slump back against the doors.
Kell took in Losen first. “It won’t bring Kisimyr back.”
The young magician flushed with indignation. Sweat prickled on his brow, and he swayed a little when he spoke. “Did you see what that monster did to her?” he said, voice slurring. “I have to—”
“No you don’t,” said Kell.
“Kisimyr would have—”
“Kisimyr tried, and lost,” said Kell grimly.
“You can stay here, hiding in your palace,” growled Brost, “but our friends are out there! Our families!”
“And your bravado cannot help them.”
“Veskans do not sit idly by and wait for death,” boomed Sar.
“No,” said Kell, “your pride carries you right to it.”
She bared her teeth. “We will not hide like cowards in this place.”
“This place is the only thing keeping you safe.”
The air was beginning to shimmer with heat around Brost’s clenched hands. “You cannot keep us here.”
“Believe me,” said Kell, “there are a dozen other people I’d rather keep, but you were the only ones lucky enough to be in the palace when the curse fell.”
“And now our city needs us,” roared Brost. “We’re the best it has.”
Kell curled his hand, pricking the base of his palm with the point of metal he kept against his wrist. He felt the sting, the heat of blood welling on his skin.
“You’re show ponies,” he said. “Meant to prance in a ring, and if you think that’s the same thing as battling magic, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“How dare you—” started Brost.
“Master Kell could fell you all with a single drop of blood,” announced Hastra from behind them.
Kell stared at the young man with bald surprise.
“I’ve heard the royal Antari has no teeth,” cut in Sar.
“We don’t want to hurt you, little prince,” said Brost.
“But we will,” muttered Losen.
“Hastra,” said Kell evenly, “leave.”
The young man hesitated, torn between abandoning Kell and defying him, but in the end, he obeyed. The eyes of the magicians flicked toward him as he passed, and in that instant, Kell moved.
A breath, and he was behind them, one hand raised to the outer doors.
“As Staro,” he said. The locks within the door fell with a heavy clank, and fresh steel bars spread back and forth over the wood, sealing the doors shut.
“Now,” said Kell, holding out his bloodied hand, palm up, as if to offer it. “Go back to the gallery.”
Losen’s eyes widened, but Brost’s temper was too high, and Sar was lusting for a fight. When none of them moved, Kell sighed. “I want you to remember,” he said, “that I gave you a chance.”
*
It was over quickly.
Within moments, Brost sat on the floor, clutching his face, Losen slumped against the wall, holding bruised ribs, and Sar was out cold, the tails of her blond braids singed black.