Fall of Ruin and Wrath (Awakening, #1)

“What are you doing in here?”

The gasp of pain turned to one of recognition as I reached back, grabbing his arm. I knew this voice. It was Weber, one of the bakery workers in town, who always flirted with the paramours when he brought fresh pastries that Claude loved— ones he swore no one else could make as well. He was a large man— burly, knuckles bruised, always swollen from the boxing matches held in one of the gambling dens by the wharf.

His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. “Tell me.”

“You’re hurting me,” I rasped.

“Girl, I’m gonna do worse than that if you don’t answer me.” Weber dragged me farther into the stall, angling me away from the entrance as he folded his other arm around my neck. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

The smell of sweat and cane sugar swamped me as I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I . . . I was out for a walk— ”

“Come on now.” Spittle sprayed my cheek as Weber bent his head. “You’re going to have to— Wait. Is that blood on you?”

“I fell,” I said in a rush. “That’s why— ”

“Bullshit. What did you do in here?” he hissed, suddenly going still behind me.

“I— ”

“Quiet.” His head jerked to the side.

I felt what he heard. The sudden unnatural stillness of the barn— of the air thickening and charging. Then I heard it. The soft, nearly silent footfall. My entire body went rigid. Weber spun us around. The aisle was empty. Of course it was. The Lord could barely stand, had nearly been drained of all his blood, and was possibly still missing at least one eye.

“Is that Hyhborn blood on you?” Weber demanded, taking a step back. “Did you free that thing?”

Before I could answer, he yanked down my hood and cursed. “For fuck’s sake, you’re one of the Baron’s bitches.”

“I’m— Oh, fuck it.” Giving up on lying, I slammed my arm back. This time I didn’t hit hard flesh as I shoved my elbow into Weber’s stomach with enough force that his arms loosened with a curse of pain. Spinning around, I thrust my knee up, into his groin.

“Bitch,” Weber gasped, doubling over.

I darted around him, but Weber lurched forward. He caught the back of my cloak, throwing me to the floor like I was nothing more than a sack of trash. I landed on my knees for the umpteenth time that evening.

“Stay there,” he spat, reaching around to his back. “I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

In the streak of moonlight, I saw the flash of a milky-white blade— a lunea dagger held in his hand. I rose as Weber started for the aisle, snapping forward and grabbing the sleeve of the arm wielding the blade.

The baker cocked his arm, catching me in the face. Pain burst along my nose as I staggered sideways, falling into the wall. Wood groaned under the impact as I lifted my hand to my nose. Wet warmth coated my fingers.

Blood.

My blood.

Tiny hairs rose all over my body as my gaze locked on to his. My thoughts quieted, and it . . . it happened. I connected with him, and my intuition came alive, showing me the future— the excruciating crack of bone in my right arm, then my left. The phantom pain traveled to my throat. I felt it all.

His death.

And I . . . I smiled.

“Stupid bitch, you stay there and stay quiet. You’ve already got a steep price to pay. Don’t make it— ” His words ended in a choked gasp.

And my breath stalled in my chest.

The Hyhborn lord stood there, moonlight slicing over his bowed head and bloodied chest. He looked like an avenging spirit conjured from the depths of nightmares as he held the baker by the throat with one hand and the wrist with another.

“Attempting to capture . . . me was a bad choice to . . . make.” His voice was so soft yet so cold, it sent a chill of dread down my spine. “But striking her?”

My blood-tinged lips parted as the Lord lifted the mortal off the floor, unperturbed as Weber beat at the arm holding him up.

“That was a fatal mistake,” the Hyhborn snarled.

Weber sputtered, eyes bulging.

The Hyhborn’s head tilted, sending several strands of hair sliding back. The moonlight cut over his profile, glancing over his mouth. His smile was as bloody as mine had been. He twisted Weber’s arm sharply.

The crack of the baker’s bone was like thunder. The dagger landed with a thud. His wheezy whimper gave way to a smothered, keening wail.

“I . . . remember you.” The Lord’s head straightened. “You were the one . . . who jumped me outside the tavern.” He reached across, grasping Weber’s other arm. “You’re the one . . . who put a spike . . . in my chest.”

I pressed back against the wall at the snap of the second bone, my hand falling from my bloodied nose.

“And you laughed while doing it.” The Lord suddenly jerked his hand back—

I turned away but I still heard the sickening crunch— still saw the glossy blue-white of cartilage of Weber’s windpipe. I tried not to see even though I already had, seconds ago.

“And that will not be a sound you make again.” The Lord tossed the clump of ruined tissue and flesh aside. He dropped the baker.

Bile climbing up my throat, I turned and looked to where Weber lay, a twitching, spasming heap of man. I’d seen my fair share of death. In the streets and in the orphanages as a kid, even long before my Hyhborn lord had come to Union City. I’d seen death so many times, in my mind and before me— those who passed due to ailments that had festered and grown inside them, and those who passed due to the evils that had grown inside of others. I’d seen so much death that I would think I’d have grown used to it by now, and maybe in a little way I had, because I wasn’t screaming or shaking. But it was still a shock. A loss, even if Weber had it coming, but I . . .

I had never smiled at it before.

“Your intervention . . . was unnecessary,” the Lord said, drawing my gaze to him. Kneeling, he wiped the gore from his hand on Weber’s shirt. He turned his head toward me, and I thought I could see the beginning of an actual eye in the right socket. “You should’ve . . . stayed back.”

It took me a moment to find words. “You were injured. You’re still injured.” And he was. His chest was moving in short, shallow pants. Even in the moonlight, I could see that his skin had lost a lot of its color. The violence had cost him.

“And you are . . . a mortal barely able to defend yourself . . . or another.” He rose, his movements shaky. “But you’re brave— braver than . . . many stronger than you.”

A laugh rattled out of me. “I’m not brave.”

“Then what . . . do you call your actions tonight?”

“Foolish.”

“Well, there is such a thing as foolish bravery,” he said, sighing as he moved toward me. “He . . . struck you.”

I inched to the side, away from him. “I’m fine.”

The Hyhborn lord halted.

“My nose isn’t even bleeding anymore,” I rambled. “It was barely a hit.”

A moment of silence passed. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His shoulders tensed. “I . . . I won’t hurt you again.”

At least he had the self-awareness to realize that he had, even if his actions had been accidental.

“You knew . . . the man?” He dragged a hand up his face, through his hair.

“Yes. He worked at the bakery.”

“He was . . . waiting around outside when I left the tavern. He was with . . . two others. The one . . . at the tavern . . . and another who was there drinking.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. He was speaking of Porter and likely Mickie.

“They’ve done this before,” he continued, voice becoming hoarse.

I shuddered. For them to know what Fool’s Parsley would do to a Hyhborn and to have the lunea blades, they’d probably done this more than once.

He then looked down at himself, pressing his finger just below the wound on his chest.

“Does it hurt?” I blurted out yet another incredibly pointless question.

His head lifted, and now all I saw was the straight line of his nose. “It feels like a . . . hole was carved . . . through my chest cavity.”