Chapter One
It's Not Over
It was too cold; so cold his entire body was numb with it. It wasn't easy, then, forcing himself awake. He had lost too much blood and was losing more with each passing second. He had to cauterize the wound, since he had no stele, but he also had no fire. He pushed himself into a sitting position, using a tree as a backrest, as support. He closed his eyes, panting from the effort to get up. The bark was rough, but it hardly mattered. He forced his eyes open once more, and using his teeth and one good hand, tore a long strip from his shirt—it was wet and filthy, but it would do. He tied the sopping material around the stump where his hand ought have been, then collapsed back against the tree, gasping, coughing violently. He knew he was in trouble. He could no longer feel the cold pricks of the falling rain on his grey skin. With bleary eyes he looked at the makeshift bandage. Blood had already soaked it a startling crimson. He smiled grimly, and weakly but thoroughly, cursed that bastard his father had half-raised; the one who tried to claim his name, Jonathon.
He stared blearily out at the pouring rain, watching the grey curtain fall with listless apathy. He was a dead man, he knew it. Then he saw it, glittering not ten feet away, hidden by the long-stemmed leaves of grass. A stele, and possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever set eyes on. With a feral burst of energy, he lunged for it. With a hasty, shaking hand, he gripped the slippery thing and drew runes for healing on his exposed flesh. The bite of the stele was a welcome sting as the marks began to take effect. He knew they wouldn't save him, but they bought him time—and energy. Energy he would surely need if he wanted to put distance between himself and this clearing. That bitch Isabelle and whoreson Jace would be coming back to make sure they finished the job, no doubt.
He stumbled to his feet, nearly slipping in the mud, but made it to his feet. He began to walk, cradling his wounded stump against his chest. There was a refuge he knew of, a place hidden in the forest—one his father had made, Valentine had said, solely for him. He had been there once, when he was thirteen. He had not been permitted inside, but had seen a woman, bland, unremarkable, in the wooden doorway. His father had given her something, something Jonathon had not been able to decipher. He had seen, as the two adults stood in the doorway, a curtain in the attic window of the little cabin, rustle. The white lace Jonathon had thought tacky, a waste of perfectly good cloth, had then drawn his rabid fascination. It did not, however, stir again. When Valentine had returned, Jonathon had looked up at the taller man with matching features and questioned,
'Father, what is in there? And why did you give something to that woman? What was it?'
Valentine had grinned in a cold kind of satisfaction. 'You'll see when you're older, boy. Just know that what is in there is for you, and you alone.'
Jonathon's eyesight was dimming, the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. To couple that, he could no longer hold his hand steady enough to trace new runes; they came out as painful squiggles, meaning- and worthless. The ground was steep here, and thick with mud. He tried to keep his footing sure, but his ankle gave out and rolled when his foot skimmed over a hidden rock. He tumbled down, slamming into the hill with a jarring force. The mud softened the fall a bit, but it was loose and plastic. He rolled, picking up speed, unable to stop. His body, broken and tender as it was, slammed into a tree, effectively stopping his movement, but snapping a rib at the same time. His eyes, black stars, flew open wide before the rolled back into his skull as he slid into unconsciousness. Nod, demon and king of the slumbering, met him with open arms.