Silver Flame (Vampire Girl #3)(55)

"I have some skill in healing. I could try to help, if you’d like?"

She chuckles. "Thank you, girl, but I have done all the healing one could on this leg. Perhaps it will get better with time, but I doubt it. Now, let us return to the feast. And honor the dead by enjoying what they fought for."

I follow her back to bonfire, and we sit together near Tavian.

"Here, let me see your palm," says Madrid, and I let her study my hand. "Your life has been short, for a Fae," she says, "but not devoid of hardship. Yet, there is much more to come." She closes her eyes, murmuring some incantation. She speaks softly, her voice low and hoarse. "I see a silver bird and a tiger, black. I see a serpent and no way back." She opens her eyes, and jolts backwards, as if startled from a dream.

"What does it mean?" I ask.

She glances at Tavian, then back at me. "I do not know. But you will see the signs."

Somehow, I feel she knows more than she says. So why not tell me? Is my future truly so grim?

I try to focus on something else. "So, how do you know Tavian?" I ask.

She smiles. "Oh, Tavian has been around a very long time. I’d be surprised if there’s someone he doesn’t know."

I look back at the sexy Fae, studying his hair and skin. He does not look like the ancient Fae I’ve seen. His hair isn’t white, and his joints and muscles are full of power. But he did mention a time before the Unraveling. A time ages ago.

"Have you seen Metsi recently?" asks Tavian.

Madrid nods somberly. "She is not as she was. And I fear, after Oren’s death, she has descended even further into madness."

"Oren?" The name sounds familiar. "The Fire Druid? He passed?"

Madrid looks away from the fire, to the darkness she had just visited. "Killed in battle." She doesn’t offer more.

"So what brought you here?" asks Tavian. The question surprises me. I’d assumed this was Madrid’s home.

Madrid glances at the children, playing and dancing by the fire. "Durk and I wanted to help those injured in the battle, and the families whose father and mothers and children never returned. This seemed like the place to start." She turns to me. "What of you, Kayla Windhelm? What brought you so far north?"

"I…" I can’t muster the words. I can’t tell her I came here to raid and pillage and murder her people. My people. No. We are still different, I tell myself. I am Shade. And they are Fae. We are not the same.

Tavian seems to notice my troubles and puts a hand on my shoulder. "It’s not where we came from, or why, that matters," he says. "What matters is where we go from here."

Madrid nods. "Wise words, Lord Tavian."

"Lord?" I ask.

He glances at Madrid, then chuckles. "Only a nickname she likes to tease me with."

"Yes," Madrid says, looking down. "Yes. Only a nickname."

I study Tavian. This man who is so much more than he seems. "Who are you?" I ask.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he looks at me, his green eyes deep and mesmerizing. "Kayla, I—"

An arrow streaks through the sky.

It hits one of the dancers in the chest, and they collapse in the snow. People scream. The children cry.

"Raiders," I call out. "Get everyone inside. Bar the doors. Grab anything that can be used as a weapon."

Madrid nods and stands, moving swiftly despite her walking staff. "Everyone, follow me! Come, children." She glances at Tavian, before moving on, and he nods. Why?

Arrows begin to rain from the sky, hitting a woman in the shoulder. One lands near my foot. Tavian and I duck behind a cart.

He grabs my arm. "Kayla. Follow them inside. Now. You need to trust me."

"No. I’m staying. I can fight."

"Trust me," he growls.

Something in his tone, in his eyes, sways me. "Fine. I’ll hide." I touch his hand. "Be careful." He nods, and I run, dodging arrows until I reach the forge. My breath turns to smoke in the air. My limbs tremble with cold. Thunder roars above, lightning streaks the sky. The storm Tavian spoke of. I find an old rusty sword and hide behind a wall, searching for attackers. I see none yet, but they will come. I turn my gaze to Tavian.

He steps out from behind the cart, out into the snow and rain of arrows. Over the hill, a company of dozens descends. Vampires wielding torches and swords and spears. They howl like beasts and laugh like madmen.

Tavian does not waver. He unfastens his cloak. He pulls off his shirt. And then he changes.

He leaps forward, and midair his skin turns to fur, his hands to claws. When he lands, it is on top of a man, and he tears him in half, spraying the snow with blood. This is not what Tavian was before. He is not white. But black with silver stripes.

The tiger, black, echo Madrid’s words.

He is larger than any natural beast and far more fierce. As he fights, smoke curls around him, covering the battlefield in darkness. The raiders who choose to attack him soon find themselves maimed or dead, and those who flee are caught quickly, their bodies turned to shreds.

This isn’t a battle.

It’s a massacre.

It’s the reason Metsi wouldn’t face Tavian. The reason she let us go.

This is the Darkness Tavian spoke of. The power of life and death.