The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(108)
“Don’t touch that!” She jerked her hand away, her eyes bright with fear. “You can’t touch my blood at all. No matter what happens. Don’t touch my blood. Don’t let anyone else touch it either.”
He stared at her for a long moment while her words fell into place. Panic seared his thoughts.
“You were saying good-bye.” He forced the words out. “You’ve done something to yourself so that the wraith comes for you.”
“It was always going to come for me,” she said, moving closer so that she was once more standing a mere breath away from him. The musicians started a new dance, but still Kellan and Blue stood in the center of the ballroom while the dancers swirled around them.
“I don’t understand.”
She pressed her uninjured hand to his cheek once more. “I’m bonded to it in some way. Mama must have used my blood in the spell that sent it to the Wilds as well as in the lock. It came for me at the gate, and it will come for me now.”
“And you’re ready to die.” The words weighed as much as his entire kingdom.
The reckless light was back in her eyes, but her expression was serene. “I’m poison, Kellan.”
“You are not poison. You’re the kindest, smartest, most incredible girl I’ve ever known.”
She smiled a little. “Thank you. But I mean I’m literally made of poison. I made the most lethal potion I could and then poured it into my bloodstream so it could bond with my blood. When the wraith drinks from me, my blood will make sure the poison bonds with the wraith. I’ll kill the monster, Kellan, and you and your family will be safe.”
The room tilted, and he hung on to her to keep his feet. “I can’t . . . There has to be another way.”
She let her hand slide slowly from his cheek to his shoulder, and then she stepped back. “Remember me like this. The girl in the yellow dress who loved you first.”
And then a ripple of unease ran through the crowd, starting at the door that led to the entrance hall and expanding until the dancers went still and the musicians fell silent. Someone screamed, and then the queen was on her feet, her dark eyes blazing with fear, her hands clutching the front of her dress as she stared at the doorway.
Kellan turned and the foundation beneath his feet cracked and slid away.
His father stood in the doorway, his eyes locked on his son, a sword in his hand.
FORTY-FOUR
KELLAN LUNGED IN front of Blue as the thing that used to be his father moved across the crowded ballroom toward them, his gait oddly disjointed but impossibly fast. The sword he held gleamed beneath the chandeliers. People screamed and ran off the dance floor, leaving Kellan, Blue, and the team of guards who were rushing to defend their prince.
This was madness. His father couldn’t be alive. Couldn’t be striding toward him with a weapon in his hand. It was impossible.
It was also true.
The air felt too thick to breathe as Kellan watched the king swing his sword like a vicious pendulum, slicing into those who would try to stop him. Two of the guards went down, blood pouring from their wounds.
This was his father. His father. Kellan had wished for so long to have more time with the king that for a terrible moment, he thought he’d caused this. He’d dared the sea one too many times to exchange his father’s life for his, and now here was his wish, driving his sword into the side of the third guard, and then dragging it free, his eyes never leaving Kellan’s.
Did he want vengeance? Did he, like Kellan, hold his son responsible for cutting his life short eleven years ago? Kellan’s hand, already curled around the hilt of his dress sword to pull it free, hesitated as more guards sprinted across the dance floor toward the king.
“Kellan, get out of the way!” Blue rushed in front of him, shielding him with her body as the king reached them.
The king’s sword swung toward her, and the paralysis that had rooted Kellan to the floor broke. Lunging forward, he pushed Blue to the side as he raised his own sword. His blade slammed into his father’s, a shriek of metal against metal, and held.
Kellan planted his feet and put all his strength into pushing against his father’s sword. They stood face-to-face, swords crossed above their heads, and the numb corner of Kellan’s heart blazed to life with unbearable agony.
“Father,” he said softly. “Please, put down your sword.”
The king’s expression was slack, his brown eyes flat and empty. He pushed harder on his weapon. Behind him, the guards closed in.
“Talbot, stop!” The queen’s voice split the air, filled with desperation and grief.
The king’s body jerked, and his head slowly pivoted until he was staring at the royal dais. The queen stood, body trembling, her hands clutched together in front of her chest, as if praying. Nessa was beside her, her eyes huge as she stared at the man who’d been her father but who’d died before she could make any memories with him.
The guards reached the king, and the queen flinched as two of them drove their blades into the back of his knees to incapacitate him. A third went for the king’s sword hand. The weapons struck their target, biting deep. Thick black sludge that smelled of sea brine and decay oozed out of the wounds, but the king didn’t fall. Didn’t lose his grip on his sword. Didn’t waver.
In horror, Kellan watched the wounds knit back together as if an invisible thread had been pulled. If they couldn’t disarm him or incapacitate him, how were they going to stop him?