Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(98)

But the scene at the castle with Aodren didn’t go as planned because Phelia was already gone.

I stop resisting and twist my hands, wrapping them around Phelia’s wrists. My palms cover the runes. My invisible touch brushes against the wild storm of energy inside her. But unlike the scene in the woods, her frenzied energy is complicated with other zips and zings. If they were colors, Phelia’s would be black. The others would be strands of yellow, green, blue, and orange. I imagine a hand created from my own energy, attempting to separate the colors, plucking them off and throwing them into the wind. But Phelia fights me. Her black is resistant and full of tentacles that whip around, catching the escaping colors.

I focus on the black, drawing it through my palms. Raw power surges up my arm, hot and sweet as summer molasses. I am alive. Energy sings in my veins. Strength multiplies in my arms.

Suddenly, I’m not the one caught in another’s grip. I’m the aggressor. Hands wrapped around Phelia’s wrists, I force her down to her knees as easily as moving a small child. Her eyes, two round moons, wide and old, shift from my face to the hand that’s wrapped around her wrist, drawing energy like I might empty a waterskin.

But along with the energy comes a surge of murky thoughts and emotions. At first they’re terrorized whispers. A child’s cry in the dark. And then they grow clearer, painting perfect pictures of nightmares and dark desires.

Her screech coils through my ears.

The darkness is divine. Delicious. I want it. I drink it in, my goal no longer to subdue Phelia, but to take everything she has. Everything.

No, a voice cries from the back of my head. You’re not like you’re mother. You can stop this. I resist tugging the thread of black power, despite how my body cries for more.

Pain explodes in my back and burns, burns, burns through my belly. The suddenness of it rattles my thoughts and causes me to release Phelia. I look down to where my hands have gone to my stomach. Only, my fingers stop, hovering in front of the crimson-soaked blade protruding above my navel. A blade.

A cry of anguish rends the air. It’s not mine. I’ve no air to even gasp for the pain and numbing. Phelia’s gaze meets mine one last time. Shock, sadness, and sorrow.

I try to talk, but nothing comes except a gurgle. A metallic tang coats my tongue.

And then I’m falling,

falling,

falling.





Chapter

47


Cohen


A CRY CAPTURES MY ATTENTION.

Near the tree line, Lirra is fighting a guard while another one lies dead on the ground. A dozen paces away, Britta has her back to me. Wasn’t she in the field? I blink a few times, trying to see past the smoke. Britta is standing in front of Phelia, who’s on her knees, black coat draping across the white. Beyond them a group of four other girls is huddled together.

And Jamis?

The horses move and the traitor lord steps out from behind them, sword extended. He runs at the group of girls, wearing a mask of murder.

Panic drives me forward.

“Britta” slips out as I dart past Aodren, flicking snow up as I head for Jamis and—

Jamis’s sword slides into Britta’s back. No warning at all. He just stabbed—a cry of anguish tears from my lips. No!

Jamis runs for the horses. He’ll be my concern later. I race to Britta’s side, arms pumping, legs carrying me as fast as they can. A shock shudders through Britta’s body. I chuck my sword on the ground, reaching for her body before she can fall.

“No,” I hear King Aodren choke out beside me.

I hold Britta to my chest, dragging in dry breaths that provide no air. Dove. Please, please live. If only I possessed the power Britta has, I’d give her all my energy. Everything I have.

Swords clatter. A ring of steel echoes around us. The king shouts something.

I glance up to see Aodren fighting Jamis. It doesn’t take more than a few moments for the king’s swordsmanship to overwhelm Jamis. King Aodren’s blade thrusts through the traitor’s heart. Jamis gags. His beady eyes bulge. But I don’t have it in me to care.

I adjust Britta in my arms, careful not to inflict any more pain. I shield her face from the smoke. Her eyelids flutter. My chest cracks wide open.

“I—I love you,” I whisper, dropping my lips to her forehead. “I was a fool. Please, Dove. Please don’t leave.”

Someone jostles my shoulder. “Let us take her.”

The Guild women and Lirra gather round. Fury pours out of me. It wipes away my pains and has me passing Britta’s shell of a body to the extended arms of the Guild. I pick up my sword and stalk to Phelia, who has scrambled toward the Channeler girls. Wrath pulsing along my arms, I raise my blade. I will run it straight through her chest where her heart would be. If she had one.

“You. Did. This.” My words are fists, slamming the air.

The weakened woman stumbles, collapsing on the ground, and pulls her tattooed arms over her face.

“Stop.” King Aodren’s command makes me pause. My arms quake. The blade wobbles a knuckle of space above her sternum.

“She deserves to die,” I tell him, spit flying from my mouth. I see Britta, broken, pale, and lifeless in the Guild women’s arms. The image turns everything inside me to dust. Who am I without her?

“Yes,” he says. “But not if there’s something that can be done to save Britta.”