Act I, as promised. As always, thanks go to my lovely beta reader, J. Ace.
ACT I.
The Lonely Now
Nine years ago …
The monster didn't visit him for several more days.
Aeron was used to the loneliness—the solace in his own company, the knowledge that no one could hurt him but he himself. He was accustomed to the quiet, to the dark, to the walls that held him safe from those who would otherwise come for him.
Though he supposed there weren't so many people that would come for him now that his mother was dead, her soldiers were scattered, and all she'd reigned over were free of her influence.
Free. What a ridiculous word. So small, so simple, yet it was everything Aeron had never imagined. To Aeron, free was as rational a notion as some new, invented colour; in either case, he would never see it.
—
The monster came for him on the third day. This time, he whistled.
The monster never would have dared to whistle while his queen still lived, but her death had loosened his lips and brought his jaunty tunes to the halls, right to the door of Aeron's cell.
Upon entry, the monster surveyed Aeron like a beast catching its prey unawares, with the kind of still silence that precedes the chase, the leap, the kill. "Hello, pet," he purred, face split with a thin smile over his long, pointed chin. "How are you this morning?" His laugh filled the whole space. "I suppose you wouldn't know what a morning is, would you? Have you ever seen the sun, boy?"
Aeron shook his head.
The monster stepped forward so his feet were right in front of Aeron's line of sight, dropped to the floor as it was. "Would you like to?"
Aeron looked up at the monster, who was lit from behind by the torches in the hall outside. "What do you mean?" Aeron asked.
The monster grinned. "Come on, boy. Let's go see the sunrise, shall we?"
—
Aeron had never been out of the catacombs before.
His mother had kept him, her little secret, tucked away deep beneath the mountain, in all the places the heat never quite touched. He had been tutored there, trained there, raised there. Not once had Aeron stepped foot on the spiral staircase that led to the upper levels; not once had he even seen it in anything more than other's minds and memories.
Until today.
The monster ushered Aeron up the stairs from behind, shoving him up with hard, calloused hands on his wings—wings that dragged along each step, having long lost the strength to hold themselves up without causing him unbearable agony. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stretched them out to their full width. Didn't think they could anymore.
The door at the top of the stairs was wrought iron, rusted at the edges like a page in an old, mouldy book. It swung open as they arrived at it, a hooded figure on the other side minding it, guarding it, waiting to ensure that Aeron was never permitted past it and into the world beyond.
Well, that was the guard's purpose no longer, Aeron supposed. But it had been for so long.
The halls beyond were unlike anything Aeron had ever seen.
Thick, purple carpets lined the main, wider halls they stepped into, elegant candelabra dotting here and there. Aeron had seen opulence in clothing—his mother's dresses, her jewels and cloaks, the finer clothing of the monster or the delicate detailing on the armour of her guards—but he had never witnessed such wealth in decor, in purely decorative objects.
"You haven't seen anything yet," said the monster, pushing Aeron forward on shaking legs.
They snaked through halls just like the one they'd come from. If he'd cared for his life, Aeron might have counted the turns as he went, marking his progress and building a map of this new territory in his mind. It wasn't that Aeron had given up on caring for his life—he'd never really known how to to begin with.
They continued up and up until Aeron was so exhausted he thought he might collapse. He had never walked this far in his life, never been given the opportunity to build stamina like this. He'd only ever trained in magic, never in physical strength. He wondered if that was to deliberately sabotage any chances he had of escaping, should he be so inclined.
At the end of one last spiral staircase was a kind of light that Aeron had never seen before. The monster propelled him toward it, making him trip up the last few stairs, knocking his shins against the edge of one of the steps. He made no sound to indicate his pain, only pulled himself up by his arms and forced his way into the room atop the stairs.
The light was daybreak.
The room was small, three paces either way, and had windows on every side of it. They must have been at the very top of the mountain, with all sides visible for miles around.
Aeron was only interested in the east, where the sun crested, blazing its way into the sky. He stared at it no matter how much he wanted to look away—the candles throughout the halls below had done nothing to prepare his eyes for this light. Tears streamed down his face, whether from the pain of the light or from the joy of the moment, he did not know.
The monster, of course, did not care.
"I brought you up here for two reasons," he began, pacing behind Aeron. "Ask me what they are."
Aeron was in no mood to play this game, but now that he had been here, now that he had seen this light, there was so much more to lose. If the monster locked him away from the light forever, after having known it for this brief time, he knew he may never recover.
Dutifully, Aeron asked, "Why did you bring me here?"
"Well, first of all," said the monster, moving into Aeron's field of vision and leaning against a window, "I wanted you to see the new world, free of your mother, with your own eyes."
Aeron wasn't sure what purpose that served, but he kept quiet.
"Second of all," continued the monster, "I have a proposition for you, and it's a proposition best heard in the light of a new day. The dawn is … symbolic, in a way. I like the meaning behind it. The inevitability of a new day, a new reality, a new deal … It's fitting."
"What proposition?"
"As you've likely guessed, your mother's people are in disarray. I'm afraid your father went on a bit of a rampage after her death and killed all of us he could find, but there were some he never knew, some he never met, and we've found a way to avoid his wrath. For now."
Aeron drew into himself a little at the mention of his father. He'd never met him, but he'd heard the stories. The whore. The slave. The true monster that snarled from the end of his mother's leash. If his father had turned against his mother's people, was coming for them all in payment for her sins, then it was only a matter of time before he found him. Before Aeron paid for his mother's crimes, too.
Good, part of him said. You should pay.
"There are some, still, who have returned to Hybern to inform the king of the loss of his general. And then there are those who remain here, where your mother made a home for us. Plotting, planning our next move—how best should we avenge our queen in this new world? Should we raze all that this new sun's light touches, destroy everything they hold dear, everything that survived your mother's reign? The others think we should, but … not yet. We have one last mission to undertake first. And for that, we would like your help."
Aeron blinked. "My help?"
"See, Aeron …" The monster sidled closer to him. "The king your mother served under is a powerful man in possession of … unique artifacts. Unique artifacts capable of doing great and terrible things—remaking, reforming, even … reviving. If we bring your mother's body to him, her remains, even a piece of her, then she may yet be reborn."
Aeron's stomach roiled. No. His mother had never let him have this, seeing the sun, seeing the light. If she had things her way, he would dwell in darkness forever. If she returned, that was precisely what he'd do.
"Naturally, a debate has been waged as to how best to manage this task. The riders dispatched to Hybern have had to travel light and fast, finding ships to take, sending word back to us when there are appropriate vessels available for us. We intend to split up into groups to bring the pieces of her back to our king in the hope that at least one part may make its return—for one part is all that the Cauldron needs to being your mother back. If the Grey Guard were to discover this venture, they'd hunt your mother's remains down and burn them to ashes. We cannot be certain of our secrecy, but I believe, with your help, I can be certain of my party's success."
"How can I help?" Aeron meant it as a genuine inquiry, not an offer of assistance. The monster, of course, took it to be the latter.
"Good of you to offer," he praised. "Your daemati skills are unparalleled, if your mother was to be believed. I myself am adept at shielding, but entering others' minds—altering them at will—that is something I cannot claim to be able to do. And the Grey Guard, the servants of the High Priestesses—they are formidable daemati indeed. Should we run across them on the road, you can easily divert them. Especially now that your mother is no longer present to dampen your power at will."
"You want me to travel with you?" To aid in the revival of my mother?
"You'll have the sun on your face every day," said the monster. "And, once we're in Hybern, the king will likely wish to make use of your services in a formal capacity. I doubt he'll confine you to the dungeons like your mother did."
"But if she's there, she won't want me to be free." She'd want him in another dungeon, another cell, another pair of chains. The monster had removed his shackles, he knew, but he still held his body hunched, his hands together as though they were still bound together with iron. Illyrian iron, he corrected himself. His mother had made certain that he was cognizant of that fact.
"Even Amarantha was bound to our king's will," said the monster, something bitter in his tone. "If the king wishes to make use of you, it is not her place to argue. And if the king wishes to gift you the sun itself, then the sun belongs to you and you alone."
Aeron wanted the sun. He wanted it so badly.
"What do I have to do?"
"With gifts like yours, we cannot be hunted without our knowledge. No surprise attacks on the road, no ambushes waiting for us at every corner—you can sense them, feel them coming for us, and you can stop them. We will move through the land and sea as though we were never there at all.
"I don't have to fight?"
"You're hardly trained for that," the monster said wryly. "And besides—with you, we won't have to fight."
Aeron leaned forward, bracing himself on the window sill. His wings ached from standing so long, blood rushing down into the very ends of them and making them tingle. It had been too long since he'd moved them, too long since he'd stretched . "Why can't I just go free?" he asked, his voice small.
The monster moved closer to him, pressing a hand over his dirty knuckles. "You don't belong to you, my boy," said the monster. "You belong to Hybern. It's what you were born for, what your mother fucked that whore for, what she died for—we all know what you can do, what you will do. And you will do it for Hybern. For your people."
Your people. Aeron wondered, briefly, if he was about to be sick on the floor. "I'll do it," he said, his voice strangled. "I'll do anything."
The monster clapped him on the back. "Good lad. I knew you'd come around. And as a reward …" He reached for a latch beside the window, flicking it open. The glass opened out and up, sliding into somewhere else like an eyelid opening after slumber.
And then Aeron felt the wind.
For the first time in his whole life, Aeron breathed air that wasn't stale, wasn't fetid, wasn't tainted. The air was fresh on his tongue, crisp in his throat, brought tears back to his eyes. His wings lifted just a fraction at the feel of it, something deep in him calling for him to leap through the window, into the air, no matter that he'd never flown before, no matter that he'd drop like a stone in water. At least he'd be free—
And then the monster shut the window once more, with such speed and force that Aeron sprung back as it narrowly missed his fingers.
"You can have more when we're on the road."
"When will that be?"
"Whenever I decide we're ready," replied the monster.
Aeron stood back to his full height and turned to face the monster. This male, the first male he'd ever known, one of the only faces he'd seen in so long, was offering him something. Not freedom, but … close. It was something more than what he had. It was a change . And Aeron wanted it, wanted it so badly he was embarrassed to find himself crying—not in joy at having it, but because he knew that this wouldn't last. He couldn't let it last.
Because the memory of the only kindness he'd ever known, of the words he'd clung to in the dark, all alone— You'll be free one day, my boy. They can't hold you forever. And when the day comes when you feel the wind on your wings, you do something for me: You swear to me that you will never accept this again. Once you are free, you will never be anything but, for as long as you live.
And he'd promised. Oh, he'd promised.
So Aeron turned to the monster, sweetening his lie with tears that, to an outside observer, would have looked joyful, hopeful, when really they were only fear, determination, preparation for what he was going to have to do. "I'll await your word," he said.
"Good," said the monster.
He was going to have to kill the monster, Aeron realised belatedly. He was going to have to destroy him to survive, to escape, to be free at last.
And he wasn't sorry to have to do it. Perhaps that made him a monster, too.
Now …
Hope opened her eyes to darkness and a pounding in her head.
She was being held upside down—dangled over someone's shoulder, she thought, as she recognised the sensation, the press of blood pooling in her head, the rocking of footsteps that swung her whole body. It was like Marcel holding her when she was younger, spinning her around, holding her upside down while she squealed with delight.
Needless to say, she was not delighted now.
Nor was she squealing; she remained perfectly still, utterly limp, and did not utter a sound. She had no advantage here but surprise, and that was not something she was willing to give up.
Before she calmed herself, before she focused on the sounds, the smells, anything, Hope reached inside herself to that little thread, the bell-pull she could tug as needed to call for aid, any time, anywhere.
It wasn't there.
The bond was gone. Not a trace of it, not a whisper of the thread, nothing. In desperation, Hope continued searching for it, like a hand groping in the dark for something that wasn't even there. It was just—gone.
Something in Hope must have alerted her carrier to her consciousness, because the next thing she knew she was being dropped unceremoniously onto the ground.
"You can't just drop her," hissed a voice off to the side, something feminine but not . "Be more careful than that."
The carrier loomed over Hope, their outline only visible by the stars they blotted out—they were outside, she noted absently.
"She's awake," they said—he, if the low pitch of his voice was any indication. "We should set up camp anyway."
"We can walk through the dark," replied the first voice.
"The human will need to eat," said the carrier, his voice dispassionate even as he expressed a need—a need she didn't feel, not even a little. She wasn't hungry, or tired, or even particularly sore. Hope felt numb, lying there on the ground, part of her still desperately searching for the bond she couldn't find.
"The human will be fine until morning. Just knock it out again."
"You know we can't keep doing that—"
"Quiet, both of you!" someone hissed, marching over. They stood above Hope, made entirely of shadow, seeming to sap all light around them. "Get her to her feet."
Hope barely had time to protest before she was yanked up by her bound hands—she should have noticed that sooner, but she could barely think, barely breathe through the absence inside her. She swayed precariously on her feet, head dizzy with rushing blood. She had to push past it, past the hollowness in her chest—it could be anything, could mean anything—and pay more attention to her surroundings. She was prepared for this. She'd been trained for this all her life. She'd faced worse.
But never with the hole in her heart where it was supposed to connect her to her love. Her mate.
The argument raged on around her, and eventually a piece of something—bread—was thrust into Hope's hands.
"Eat," grunted her carrier. "We aren't stopping for long."
Hope did as she was told, mechanically, because they had called her the human . They thought she was weak. She couldn't fight back yet—not in the dark, not like this. The moon had sunk too low for her to see by it, and she was too disoriented to make out much of her surroundings. They seemed inclined to keep her alive, the three of them—she couldn't sense anyone else with her magic, which was weak, but there—so it made sense to play the part of a docile, weak little thing until she had the opportunity to surprise them.
Then, and only then, would she find out exactly what had happened to her mate.
Nine years ago ...
Aeron had two days to prepare for the journey, he was told as he had his food delivered to him that night. Two days to get ready for what was to come.
As Aeron awaited their departure, he formed a plan.
They thought he was weak. Physically speaking, they were right. He could see himself in the guards' minds—a weakling, all shrivelled wings and emaciated limbs, limp clothes and ribs prominent enough to count through his skin. He was weak, and he wouldn't last long if left to his own devices.
But he had his magic—magic that his mother had fostered in him, cultivated, nurtured in a way she had never nurtured anything else. He was a daemati like no other, and the guards were unprotected when it came to powers like his. The monster was safe from him, but the guards … the guards were just as weak in mind as he was in body. Worse, even, because he knew how to fight. He'd seen it in people's heads, read it in their thoughts. Almost all the victims his mother had brought to him had been warriors, and he had seen such fascinating things in their heads.
He could fight. He just needed the chance to get stronger.
So Aeron waited in the dark, as he had for his whole life—twelve stars on the wall, all the Starfalls he remembered, because he always knew when it happened, always felt the cursed, Night Court blood in his veins call out at the falling stars, try to pull him toward them every year. He'd counted twelve Starfalls, twelve since he'd been old enough to decide to mark them down. He didn't know how many had passed before then, but for each, he'd waited. He'd waited for so long, not knowing that he would ever have this opportunity. Not knowing what the wind tasted like, what it felt like on his wings.
But he knew now, and he was going to get it, all of it. Or die trying.
—
Aeron tasted the wind before he saw the light.
The tunnel they were exiting from was narrow, funneling the wind down it with strength enough to almost knock Aeron to his knees. He pulled his wings in painfully, trying to stop the loose membrane from catching on the gust and blowing him back into the guard member behind him. He got the sense that that wouldn't end well.
It was mid-morning when they emerged, Aeron shielding his eyes from the light, the others merely blinking as they adjusted to it. Their party was five in total, including Aeron—three guards, all hooded but one with hands the colour of the preserved apricots his mother favoured, a colour that revealed them to be lesser Fae—and the monster, who walked with his face exposed to the light, with tight leather gear, perfect for fighting in, moulded to his body, and with a satchel swinging at his waist that must have contained his queen's remains. All were armed but Aeron, which was just as well; he wouldn't know what to do with a blade if he ever got his hands on it, anyway.
No. Aeron carried nothing but the clothes on his back, which had been gifted to him by the monster the night before. They were plain and ill-fitted, but the boots—he'd never had boots before—were sturdy and fit like a second skin on his feet. Good for travelling in, he guessed, but he didn't know much about it.
The monster must have thought Aeron had halted to gaze at his surroundings in wonder, because he said, "You can look along the way. We've got to keep moving."
The guard behind Aeron—the one with strong, amber hands—pushed Aeron forward, almost making him stumble. He could feel the threat posed by it, having a guard behind him at all times. Another reminder that he wasn't free, not really.
Aeron continued walking, pretending to do as they all expected him to—staring at his surroundings, a slight look of vacant awe on his face. He knew what the outside looked like; memories of the outdoors were the first thing he looked for whenever his mother gave him a mind to test his daemati skills on. He'd probably seen more of the world than even the monster, who he was sure was as ancient as his mother had been.
So there was little interest in the outdoors for Aeron. He'd seen his first sunrise, felt his first gust of wind on his wings. He could not—would not—be awed by it any longer. He had more important things to focus on.
Like his escape.
He knew he had to wait for nightfall if he had any hope. His vision would be better than theirs then, he'd wager—if not because of his childhood in the cell, then because of his Night Court heritage. There had to be some part of him that would come awake in the dark of the night. He hoped.
And so Aeron walked along, biding his time, slipping through the minds around him like fingers in a stream, letting them go just as easily, shaking them off and moving onto another. He saw their memories, their fears, their paranoia—they were good soldiers. He could use that to his advantage.
The one behind him was lesser Fae—a dryad, in fact. She could feel the trees calling to her as she passed them, but remained firm and disciplined, her eyes only on the road before her, and Aeron's back. Her thoughts were coloured with a distaste for Aeron, something linked to his father—he avoided her thoughts on him, as he had always avoided the ruminations of any mind who had encountered Amarantha's whore. He had seen enough of his mother's cruelty to last him a lifetime; he did not need to see his father's, too.
There was something about the dryad's mind, something twisted, that made Aeron pause within it. She didn't think much about Amaranatha, he noted, which was odd, considering their intentions. No. She was entirely focused on a male, High Fae, with sharp features that never quite went into focus enough for Aeron to see them.
The remaining two guards were much simpler to puzzle out. They were related in some way—both primarily High Fae, but something darker, perhaps puca ran in their bloodline, or some other such dark Fae. Their minds were attuned to their surroundings and took no notice of Aeron's journey through their thoughts.
No one noticed anything, not even the monster. They thought he was weak, pathetic, cowardly. He could read it in their minds, feel it in the way the dark ones looked back at him, sense it in the way the dryad ambled along, prodding him whenever she became bored.
All Aeron had to do was wait.
And so wait he did.
—
Aeron waited until nightfall, when they eventually halted to set up camp. The puca-fae set up a fire, and the dryad disappeared into the woods to hunt for dinner. Aeron sat on the ground, trying to give his aching muscles a rest before he used them again. Before he used them to run at last.
The monster stood by Aeron, keeping half an eye on him as he watched over the puca-fae, who had removed their hoods and shown beautiful faces, male in appearance, though Aeron wasn't certain that puca were gendered in any High Fae fashion. If the puca in them was strong, it was entirely possible that everything about their appearance was fiction.
Aeron waited until his wings stopped pulsing with pain, until the dryad returned with the hide of a deer slung casually over one broad shoulder, her hood also pulled back to reveal a face as reddish-orange as her hands, textured like leaves crushed underfoot. She had no hair.
He waited until the deer was speared and bound to a spit, hauled up above it by the puca. He waited until bread was brought from someone's pack and passed around to all but Aeron, who sat on the fringes and tried to look afraid. (He was afraid.)
He waited until he could wait no longer, and then he struck.
Aeron speared himself into the minds of the lesser Fae, down through all the pathways he'd prepared for himself earlier. He thrust mental fingers into their thoughts, twisted, and pulled.
And then they sprung.
All three lesser Fae dove for the monster at once, attacking him. He was unprepared to face an attack from his companions, and reared back as the dryad brought a blade down at his throat.
Aeron didn't stay to see what happened next.
Finally, finally, finally, Aeron ran. And he ran for his life.
The woods whipped by him and he covered his scent as best he could, as he'd learned to. His mother had taught him how to hide, how to stay secret—he wouldn't be much use to her as the spy she was training him to be otherwise. He could melt into the shadow, use it at will. In the dark, all was shadow, and Aeron made good use of it.
He wasn't sure how long he ran for. His wings dragged behind him, catching on trees, on the floor, on anything—he'd never learned to tuck them away like his mother told him he should, but he was long used to them getting in the way, crashing painfully into doorways. He'd nearly lost all feeling in the very tips of them, the parts that always seemed to take the worst blows. The bone and tissue there was twisted back from too many knocks on walls, shriveled back and in on itself with misuse.
He could not fly, but he could run.
So run he did.
Aeron ran until his chest ached, until his breathing came shorter and shorter and the contents of his stomach—stale bread from lunchtime and some berries he'd found while they trekked—threatened to empty themselves onto the floor beneath his feet.
Heart hammering almost painfully at his rib cage, Aeron finally gave in to the need to rest. He tucked himself between two trees, out of the way, and doubled over to vomit his guts up. The resulting mess was red; whether this was blood or the remnants of the berries, he wasn't sure.
Aeron was just gathering himself to leave when the blow landed.
It hit across his jaw, slamming him into the tree so hard his vision blurred. He struggled blindly, and that was when it happened.
Blinding pain in his wing, shredding, slicing through the membrane and holding it there, the cool kiss of steel against hot blood. Blinking through the tears, Aeron looked to his left wing, instantly finding the source of his agony.
It has been pinned to the tree beside him.
Aeron screamed like he hadn't screamed in years, not since the beatings became regular, not since the broken bones had become a familiar part of his routine. No one had ever touched his wings like that, not even his mother.
"Oh, shut up, you mewling bitch," said a voice he knew all too well.
Aeron tried desperately to keep himself upright, to stop his exhausted body from sagging and pulling at the blade through his wing. It kept him at an awkward angle, but he couldn't let it slip through his membrane any further.
The monster gripped Aeron's chin, forcing him to look up. The guards' attack on the monster had been short-lived, apparently, as there wasn't even the slightest trace of exertion on his face, no blood on him that belonged to anyone but his quarry. Aeron could smell the dryad's blood on the monster's tunic, enough of it to mean she was hurt badly, probably dead.
She should have taken the monster with her.
"Did you really think that was going to work?" asked the monster, his tone incredulous. "Did you really think those guards could hold me, keep me long enough for you to escape?"
Aeron whimpered, trying to move away—but no avail, as he was still pinned.
"You can't run from me, pet," said the monster, running his hand down Aeron's cheek. "You aren't strong enough. You need me to survive out here. You need me to keep you safe."
Had he not been in blinding agony, Aeron might have scoffed. Safe. The word meant about as much as free had. It had no bearing on him; he would never be safe. He was bred to be used in this way, and so many others, and he would never be safe from it.
But he wanted it. He wanted it as badly as anyone could want something they'd never had, something they'd never hoped to so much as understand.
"What did you think you could do?" asked the monster. "Did you think you could fly away? Perhaps once, but not anymore …" He gripped the blade stabbed through Aeron's wing, twisting it. Aeron's entire body convulsed with the pain of it.
"Please," he begged hoarsely. "I'll come back with you, I'll do anything, just please, stop."
"You can't fly away, boy," said the monster. "You can't fly, and you can't run. So how could you ever plan to get away from me?"
Aeron screamed as the monster twisted the blade again, the wood creaking and splintering under the blade, blood gushing down onto the forest floor to join the vomit. He threw his daemati power at the monster, seeking something, anything to latch onto, to pull himself back.
Miraculously, he found a crack in the male's shields. He prised it open with mental fingers, slipping through and in.
The little bastard, the monster seethed. If he thinks he can run, I'll take his legs. If he thinks he can fly, I'll take his wings. I'll take everything I want, until there's nothing left but a mind and a prick. That's all he's needed for.
Aeron tried to take control, to shape the thoughts, to puzzle them out and twist them as he liked, but to no avail. The monster had let him in, he realised. He'd let Aeron inside, knowing there was nothing he could do.
Aeron reared back, physically and mentally, pain tearing through him as he pulled on his wing in the process.
There was nothing left to do. Nowhere left to run. The monster was right; it was over—
He couldn't fly. He couldn't run. But there was something else, something his mother had never dared teach him, perhaps because she knew that if he could do it, if he could escape, he would, oh, he would—
Aeron took a deep breath, steeling himself, and tried to imagine somewhere else, anywhere else. He'd seen memories of people who had done this before—he could replicate it, he knew he could. He just had to imagine somewhere else, and throw himself at it.
Nothing happened. His wing remained trapped, his body remained immobile.
And then the monster moved in on him in earnest.
A hit to the face, a blow to the ribs, lower, lower. A hit to the face, a blow to the ribs, lower, lower. Again and again, the monster rained blows down on Aeron in this pattern, leaving the boy a mewling mess that knew precisely where each hit would fall, unable to do anything about it.
Aeron tried to do it, tried to winnow , but he couldn't. He was trapped.
He cast one, longing look at his wing and knew what he had to do.
Aeron waited until there was a break in the blows, a moment in time when he just sagged there, pulling on his wing and dripping blood onto the forest floor from his nose and mouth. He waited until the monster stepped back to survey his good work.
And then he tore his wing from the tree.
With one, final scream, Aeron threw his mind out, not to a single place, not to a certain memory, but to one word.
Safe, he thought with his entire being. Take me somewhere safe.
And he folded away into nothing.
Now …
By the time the sun crested over the horizon, Hope knew everything.
Well, perhaps not everything. But enough.
She knew that they were travelling over relatively flat terrain, most of which was wooded areas punctuated here and there with broad, flat fields or grassy knolls. She knew that there were four members of their party in total—two women, a man, and herself. She knew that they weren't human, werewolf, or witch. Vampires were harder to scent—something in their nature hid their scents away unless they were bleeding directly—so she wasn't certain that they were free of that influence.
They smelled other. They smelled vaguely of something for which she only had a single reference point. They smelled fae.
She had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly where she was.
Each had their hoods drawn and were covered, head to toe, so Hope had little chance of seeing them. But she studied the lines of them, the height, the width, the angles, the gaits—one of the women, the one that seemed to be in charge of their group, had a slight limp, but there was no scent of fresh blood on her, not even the sour scent of old blood pulled to the surface of a bruise. So it was an old injury, then. She was either not of a race with accelerated healing, or the injury had been a terrible one indeed.
Either way, it was a point of weakness that Hope fully intended to exploit.
Just as soon as she stopped feeling the need to vomit. A need which had been building for hours, but was culminating now.
"Put me down," she wheezed, still hanging upside down as she was. "Put me down."
The man scoffed.
Hope beat at his back with her fists, being sure to keep her strength under control so as to maintain the facade of her mortal weakness. "Unless you want my sick down the back of your shirt, you'll put me down this instant."
The man did so instantly, stepping back just in time to avoid the blast radius of Hope's stomach contents being emptied on the rich earth beneath their feet. She heaved, again and again, cursing herself. She may not have been in such a precarious situation before, but she'd hoped to handle it with more aplomb than nervous retching.
"Are you about done?" asked the woman. The leader.
Hope turned to her, catching a glimpse of her chin beneath the hood. Was her skin … green? She must have been seeing things. "I'm sorry if my vomit is inconveniencing you," Hope said. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket as she moved to her feet—her bare feet, she noted absently. Wolves didn't wear shoes on the full moon, but it might have been nice if wolves wore shoes when being kidnapped and dragged across the middle of nowhere.
The possibly green woman turned away, her eyes back on the direction they were travelling in. "We'll stop for a break in an hour. You can walk yourself in the meantime."
"Thank you for the privilege," Hope spat, hoping her rotten breath carried over to the woman. It was the closest she could come to harming her just yet.
The man that had been carrying her now walked behind her, his presence at her back disconcerting, but nothing she couldn't look beyond. She focused on the women ahead, on discerning the connection between them. They worked well together, one stalking ahead of the other, occasionally motioning to the other with a tilted head or short hand movement. They were familiar with one another, but in what capacity? Friends? Family? Comrades? Lovers?
Whatever it was, she hoped it was enough to make them care for one another's life. As long as they cared, she could use it against them. As long as they cared, she could hold a blade to one's throat and have the others by the throats all the same. Any link between them was as much a vulnerability as the leader's limp.
Hope would take whatever she could get.
She spotted a sharp, broken stick on the ground and feigned falling, tripping over her own feet. It meant she had to slam herself into the ground to maintain the ruse, but it gave her enough time to slip the stick into her sleeve. It wasn't much, but it would hurt like a bastard when she plunged it into someone's guts. Preferably the guts of the one who kept shoving her up the path.
Hope made a show of whimpering as the man picked her up by the shoulders, depositing her back on her feet and shoving her along. In front, the women hadn't even slowed down, trusting the man to keep Hope in line.
Fools.
As Hope demonstratively checked her hands over for injuries, hissing as she found scrapes along her palms, she caught sight of her wedding ring, gleaming in the early morning sunshine. It was a simple band, twisted in one point; she didn't wear her engagement ring because there had never been one to start with. Just the plain elegance of her wedding band, and the matching, slightly larger one that rested on the finger of her husband. Her mate.
It was her wedding anniversary, she noted absently. Her husband had been out with Kol until late celebrating the anniversary of his bachelor party, and today they were meant to be spending the day together in between classes, then going out to dinner under the stars that night. One year to the day since they'd said their vows in the rickety St Anne's Church in New Orleans.
Hope found herself blinking back tears—tears that, admittedly, helped her "helpless human" act somewhat.
And down into the space, that void where the bond had once rested, Hope whispered, Happy anniversary, Aeron, praying that, somehow, it carried to him.
Nine years ago …
Aeron unfurled back into being a full three feet above the ground, crashing into it with a thump.
He grunted in pain. The entire front of his body ached and pulsed; his ribs were cracked, his pelvis almost certainly shattered. His nose was swollen and bleeding, his mouth a pulpy mess. And through it all his wing, his wing , was the most painful of all.
Aeron tried shifting back up on his haunches to avoid resting on anything painful, but everything hurt, everything ached, and nothing could make it better.
And so he fell back, landing on his wings, feeling the pain worsen, knowing that it would never stop, not until his heart finally stopped beating. He laid back in the darkness, gazing up at the stars above him—stars he could only see through the branches of a tree. He hadn't seen the stars yet. Not really, not properly. He hadn't looked up at them like this, taking notice of them, just existing within the night. He'd only been fleeing beneath them before.
Now, he accepted, he was dying beneath them.
The moon hung there, too, and Aeron found himself gazing up at it most of all. It wasn't a pure white, as he'd seen in a tapestry of the night sky his mother kept in her chambers—it was pocked with grey, with craters and imperfections that lent it depth, that kept his interest.
He didn't hurt anymore.
Aeron laid in the grass, alone with the moon and stars, and accepted his fate.
A cry lit the forest.
Aeron snapped out of his reverie, struggling up to his elbows. He heard footsteps, twigs snapping under light footfalls, and whirled in the direction of them.
A girl was running through the woods toward him, her hair as red as blood or berries, skin as pale as the moon above them. Her feet were bare, her hair was wild and loose, and her eyes, pale blue, had somehow caught the light.
Had caught him.
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