Fall of Ruin and Wrath (Awakening, #1)

My entire body went rigid as I stared into the stall, wanting to deny what I was seeing.

A man was stretched out on a wooden table. Stripped to the waist. Spikes a milky-white color were thrust deep into his forearms and his thighs, and one jutted out of the center of his bare chest, maybe an inch or two from where his heart would be. I knew what they were made of even though I’d only ever heard of them. Lunea was the only object able to pierce the skin of a Hyhborn, and it was forbidden for any lowborn to be in possession of it, but I was betting the blades were another thing traded on the shadow market.

Sickened, I lifted my gaze to where his head was turned to the side. Shoulder-length golden-brown hair shielded his face.

A strange sensation went through me— a whoosh as I walked forward, barely able to feel my legs as I looked down at his chest. He breathed, but barely. I didn’t see how, with all the blood coursing from the wounds. So much red. Crimson streaked his chest, flowing in rivers that followed the . . . the rather defined lines of his chest and stomach. His pants were made of some sort of soft leather, and they hung low enough on his hips that I could see the slabs of muscles on either side of his hips and—

Okay, what in the world was I doing, staring that intensely at a man while he lay unconscious, impaled to a wooden table?

There was something wrong with me.

There were lots of varied things wrong with me.

“H-Hello,” I croaked, then winced at the sound of my voice.

There was no response.

I didn’t even know why I expected one, with those sorts of wounds. Nor could I really understand how the Hyhborn could still be breathing. Still bleeding. Yes, they were nearly indestructible compared to mortals, but this . . . this was a lot.

The toe of my boot brushed something on the floor. I glanced down, jaw clenching. A bucket. Small buckets, actually. I lifted my gaze to the table. Narrow canals carved into the wood collected the blood running from him, funneling it to the buckets below.

“Gods,” I rasped, stomach churning as I stared at the buckets. The blood would be sold to be used in bone magic, as would other parts of the Hyhborn. I honestly couldn’t say if any of that stuff actually worked when wielded by a conjurer, but as long as people believed in potions and spells, there would be a demand.

Tearing my gaze from the buckets, I figured I needed to somehow wake him. I stared at the spike in his chest.

Intuition told me what I needed to do. Remove the spikes, starting with the one in his chest. I swallowed again, throat dry as I glanced up. His head was still turned away from me, but now that I was closer, I could see there was a discoloration in his skin along the side of his neck. I peered closer— no, not a discoloration. A . . . a pattern in his skin, one that resembled a vine. It was a russet brown instead of the sandy hue of the rest of his flesh, and there was something about the trailing, almost swirling design that struck a chord of familiarity in me, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen such a thing.

I looked back to the lunea spike in his chest and started to reach for it but halted as my gaze lifted to the damp strands of hair shielding his face. My heart pounded.

That whooshing sensation went through me again.

Hand trembling, I brushed the hair aside, revealing more of that mark in his skin. The russet-brown pattern traveled along the curve of a strong jaw, thinning at the temple, and then following the hair-line to the center of his forehead. There was a fingertip-width gap and then the mark began again on the other side, the pattern framing his face. The flesh beneath the eyebrow, slightly darker than his hair, was swollen, as were both of his eyes. Ridiculously long lashes fanned skin that was an angry shade of red. Blood caked the skin beneath his nose, skin had been split open along cheeks that were high and carved, and lips . . .

“Oh, gods.” I jerked back a step, pressing my fist to my chest.

The markings framing his face hadn’t been there all those years ago, and this Hyhborn’s face was terribly bruised, but it was him.

My Hyhborn lord.





CHAPTER 4


What I’d felt the last time I’d seen him surged through me.

A warning.

A reckoning.

A promise of what was to come.

I hadn’t understood what that meant then and I still didn’t, but it was him.

Shock held me immobile. I couldn’t believe it even though I’d always known I’d see him again. I’d expected, practically waited for his return, but I still wasn’t prepared to find myself standing above him.

Suddenly I thought of the premonition. He’s coming. I’d been wrong. It had nothing to do with the Commander of the Iron Knights.

It had been about him.

A high-pitched giggle parted my lips, shocking me. I smacked my hand over my mouth, body tensing.

He didn’t move.

Suddenly I wondered if this moment was why I’d felt what I had all those years ago in Union City. That maybe it had been a warning that one day our paths would cross, and he would need my help.

Like he had helped Grady and me that night.

I owed him.

But he was a Hyhborn lord— a Deminyen— and all I could think of was that damn garter snake.

Returning to the table, I swallowed. “Please . . . please don’t hurt me.”

I gripped the top of the lunea spike, gasping. The stone was warm. Hot. I closed my eyes, then pulled. The spike didn’t budge.

“Oh, come on,” I muttered, prying open an eye. I placed my hand on his chest, beside the wound. His skin . . . it was unnaturally hard, but I felt and heard nothing. I didn’t know if that was because of what he was or because my thoughts were just too chaotic for my senses to kick in, but there was a far bigger concern than potentially discovering whether I could read a Hyhborn like I could a mortal or if they would be like a caelestia.

What if I couldn’t get the stakes out?

Taking another breath, I closed my eyes and yanked again. The wet sound of the lunea slipping, tearing back through his flesh, turned my stomach. I choked on a gag as it came free. Dropping the stake to the straw-strewn floor below, I opened one eye and then the other. The jagged skin of the hole in his chest . . . smoked.

All right, I wasn’t going to think about that. My hand shook as I reached for the spike in his left thigh.

A thud from somewhere outside the stall jerked my head around. My stomach dropped. Shit. Making sure the hood of my cloak was still up, I crept back to the edge of the stall and waited for another sound. When I didn’t hear anything, I stepped into the aisle. The barn doors remained closed. The sound had likely been an animal running about. Probably a rat. A large one. I’d seen some the size of small dogs.

Shuddering, I started to step back—

A rush of air stirred the edges of my cloak. I went completely still, holding my breath. Shivery awareness broke out across the nape of my neck. Tiny hairs rose there and along my arms. The atmosphere of the barn shifted, thickened. Slowly, I turned.

Four lunea spikes remained, glistening with bright red blood, embedded deep in the table— the otherwise empty table.

The gas lamp went out, plunging the stall and the barn into utter, absolute darkness.

Instinct, that fickle bitch that had led me here, was telling me something else now. To move. To get the hell out. To run.

I made it a step before a body crashed into mine, taking me down. Air punched out of my lungs as I hit the hay-strewn floor hard. What Grady had shown me about how to defend myself over the years— what I’d had to learn the hard way— propelled my body into action. My fingers scraped against the floor as I lifted my hips, attempting to throw the heavy weight off me.