Shadow Cursed: A Noblesse Oblige Duet Book Two Read online

  I selected my best students and accompanied them. Daunting as the first excursion may have been, we all returned, with as much as we could carry, riding stolen horses. It wasn’t hard to whisper in their ears and convince them to leave their mortal owners behind. Humans have never quite understood the way of beasts.

  Now, Whitecroft is independent. My rangers are efficient at what they do, and we no longer need to leave for food or cattle.

  We leave for hope. We retrieve spells, enchanted stones, crystals, that the high lords study in search of a way to save us.

  It all feels so useless to me, but every time the rangers leave the barrier of Whitecroft, the folk sing and pray for us. We give them something to hold on to. Even I know that’s important.

  When I reach our base, Iola is beaming with pride at having completed her first assignment successfully. She holds a grimoire in her hands, almost reverently.

  Part of me wants to tell her it won’t do any good. That nothing in these moldy pages will save us. That nothing can. I feel like lashing out, hitting something, spewing venom.

  I feel like me. Who, and what I used to be. Rystan Drusk. Not his shadow.

  And I know why.

  “Is everything all right, boss?” Erdun seems unsure how to approach me, sensing a difference in me, no doubt.

  I didn’t know him before Whitecroft. As a rakshasa, I think he was half-wild—living on a diet of sprites stupid enough to wander into his territory, more often than not. Now, he stands awkwardly, upright on his four limbs, his pale gray skin covered in soft fur. His mouth is filled with sharp fangs, his amber eyes circled with black shadows, and his flat pink nose gives him a feline air.

  I suspect he favored the shape of a tiger in the past.

  Most of us aren’t what we used to be.

  I nod curtly, and see him hesitate, as though he’d like to press on. He daren’t.

  “Report,” I tell Iola, though I don’t need it. I was right alongside her for most of our mission to the Court of Mist.

  Vlari’s home. Where she grew up. For years, it had held untold mysteries. I’d have given everything I owned for the pleasure of a visit. I listened to every rumor, read every line I could find about the northernmost unseelie kingdom to the west.

  I snuck inside her manor without so much as thinking of her today. Without seeking her rooms, or recalling the one time I crossed the threshold, so long ago, introducing myself to her parents before escorting her to a ball.

  A lifetime ago.

  This early afternoon, I was still dead. Still unfeeling. Still unbreakable.

  Now, I question everything.

  I’ve always needed answers; the reason I hadn’t sought them until now was because I suspected they wouldn’t be ones I want to hear.

  The semblance of a decision starts to form at the edge of my mind, but I allow myself a few moments to ignore it. After pretending to listen to Iola, I serve myself a bowl of stew, and push the broth around my bowl until there’s no delaying the inevitable.

  I stand, bid my companions a good night, and mechanically walk to the one place I’ve avoided for ten years. The one place that’s been drawing me in.

  I stop in front of gates manned by a mammoth of a moss-green-skinned troll and a stockier, shorter boggart with pointed teeth smeared with blood. Neither of them could have posed much of a threat to me, but they’re certainly suitable guards. I suspect one would think twice before approaching them with ill intent.

  There are thousands of folk in Whitecroft. I suspect I’ve encountered them both once or twice around bonfires, but we haven’t been introduced. If they know who I am, they also know I don’t have any reason to be here, at the gates of my old school that now serves as the high queen’s keep. I’ll have to identify myself and state my purpose here.

  My name opens many doors; since the lords of the realm have started coming to me with assignments, the folk see me as someone of import, someone worth befriending. That said, I don’t think either of these guards will be much impressed by me. And what is my purpose, exactly? Demanding answers of the high queen? Asking her how her comatose daughter could have possibly come to a sprite’s aid? Shouting, stomping my foot, threatening until I am heard?

  I feel powerless. A state I’ve grown accustomed to, of late.

  I glance back, hesitant to turn around.

  The troll lifts the heavy, sharp lance in his hand, and hits the ground twice with its dull end. “Rystan Drusk at the gate,” he grunts out loud.

  Then to my confusion, he and the boggart at his side both step aside, parting ways to let me enter.

  When we first arrived at Whitecroft, the old school was the only edifice in the territory. The high queen, as well as the lower kings and queens of each court, took up residence here while we built more lodgings on the grounds. Now the only resident in these walls is the high queen, Ciera Bane. Vlari’s mother. Though no one but her family lives here, the hall is a constant buzz of activity. It’s where our war council is held, where the leaders decide on rations, work schedules, and ranger patrols.

  I don’t approach Whitecroft Hall—ever. Not once in ten years. That means anyone can simply walk in. I dislike this notion.

  There should have been questions, possibly a few threats. At the very least, they should have asked their superior whether I’m to be allowed inside. I scowl, concerned by the lack of security in this place. What if I were a spy?

  As I pass the two brutes, it strikes me that if entry were that easy, there might not have been any guard at all. I realize I’ve been cleared to walk in the royal keep ahead of time. Someone already authorized my access.

  I could have come here any time, any day. As if I were welcome within these walls. As if I had every right to stroll right through the gate. As if I were part of what was left of the high court.

  I’m flabbergasted, and irritated. With the guards, and with any of the lords who could have given them the order to let me through. The high queen. Her father. Her husband. Most of all, I’m annoyed at myself, because if I’d known I could have walked into Whitecroft Hall any time, without having to scramble for a justification, I might have done just that before today.

  As soon as the thought enters my mind, I know I’m lying. There’s a reason I’ve avoided this place, and it has nothing to do with the ease of access.

  Spotting a gaggle of imps and goblins bearing the midnight blue colors of the new high court planted along the walls, I nod in reluctant approval. There’s clearly enough security. Part of me wonders if they’d be better assigned outside of the hall, but I’m glad they’re here, guarding the most precious thing in the land.

  Walking the paved corridor feels strange. The grand white keep and its arched halls has been a looming, threatening shadow for so long. I kept my back to it, pretended it didn’t exist. Pretended that the one woman I’ve ever truly desired isn’t inside, cursed to sleep her life away.

  The halls are still vaguely familiar. Long ago, I studied in the chambers now converted to studies and grand meeting rooms. I’ve screwed the sons and daughters of the noblest of families in almost all of the chambers on the first and second floors to pass the time between classes. Yet, they’ve changed so much in ten years, part of me doesn’t recognize them at all.

  Lavish tapestries adorn the once-bare walls; sculptures of great kings and queens of old have been carved in blocks of marble and trunks of ash. In the chambers left ajar, I glimpse more changes. Gone are the desks and bookshelves full of tales, spells, and manuals. There are elegant velvet sofas, harps, and heavy desks instead.

  I imagined a temporary, hasty, makeshift travesty of a true royal keep, but my old school has morphed into an edifice worthy of the new high queen. Thus appareled, it’s easy to remember our first high queen, Nyx, had Whitecroft built herself.

  The one thing that hasn’t changed since my school days is that my mind was, and now is, entirely fixated on one person within these walls.

  At the gates, I’d wondered at my
purpose here, but now my steps aren’t hesitant. I stride through halls and corridors, passing arches and manned terraces. I slow as I approach what used to be the professors’ dining hall, and come to a stop at its entrance.

  The door is new. A carved, painted wooden piece of art, it features butterflies, beetles, and a stag painted black and red. The artful carving describes a story, a tale of sorts. I wonder if I can recognize it. I inspect each minuscule detail, as if they matter. They don’t. It just gives me something to do.

  I can’t open the door. Not yet. I just need a moment to contain myself, to prepare for what I’m about to see.

  My worst nightmare and sweetest dream all wrapped in one haunting vision.

  There are twelve guards around me. None of them pay me any mind; I may as well be invisible. Concerns about the casual demeanor of the guards around Whitecroft spike again. Though I can’t say I care too much about the rest of the keep, this specific room ought to be protected by mistrustful, bloodthirsty knights. They should be threatening me. Demanding my purpose. Shoving me away. No one does. No one says anything at all to stop me, much to my annoyance. I would have been grateful for a deterrent.

  Can I be here? Can I do this? The last time I entered this room, I broke. I lost something of myself in there. I’m not sure I’m willing to endure that again. I want to turn back, but I know I can’t. I have to understand.

  A child has made it from the realm of Stars to our sanctuary. It’s not unheard of. Our patrols outside our gates have indicated that the self-appointed queen of Tenebris, the usurper, rules with an iron fist, sequestering the folk to their homes inside gated villages and cities, patrolled by her army of human swine. They’re quick to draw their iron swords and turn them on the innocent, the weak. Those who hope, those who dare, try to run away and make their way to us—we’re the last of the true courts.

  Few manage to escape. Rude, crude, and weak as humans can be, they have the weapons and the manpower to run down an untrained fae. Iron-tipped arrows. Explosives. Horses they ride to death and then replace without blinking.

  The child shouldn’t have made it. She was smart; she took the road through the marshes, and the humans don’t tend to patrol the swamps as much as the other paths leading to Whitecroft. However, she probably hadn’t had any clue how to hide her tracks, and naturally, the humans had cornered her.

  That should have been the end for her. We should have found her broken, defiled body on our next patrol, left to be eaten by worms and fiends. But the girl was saved. Somehow, she was aided by that purple-haired pixie specter.

  I have no explanation, no farfetched theory. I have nothing but confusion, rage, fear, and worst of all, hope.

  A specter able to hold a blade? I can’t make sense of it. The guards I sent out after hearing the girl's tale found five human soldiers whose blood fertilized the earth. Each of their throats had been slit. The implication is staggering. Confusing. Terrifying.

  Something happened, and the answer lies behind these doors.

  Ideas swarm around my mind, each wilder than the next. I need to understand. If I don’t know what’s going on, I’m going to succumb to the depth of the madness that threatens to pull me under.

  I push the doors.

  The room, bathed in darkness, comes to life before my eyes. A green fire starts to roar on the adjoining wall, allowing my eyes to take in every detail.

  I don’t move or breathe for several moments. Then I force myself to walk in.

  This chamber has changed too. The heavy, large four-poster bed made of oak is new. Next to it, there’s a round, three-foot-tall table, upon which a vase full of fresh flowers provides the only semblance of decoration, and an armchair. There’s nothing else at all in the room.

  It looks like a tomb.

  In a way, it is.

  I let my eyes slide to the bed last.

  She’s on top of the bed, wrapped in layers of silk. Her skin looks pallid. Seeing the wild cascade of waves around her, I tighten my fist. The long locks are half white.

  From the tips to the middle, her hair is dark purple, but the rest has returned to a luminous silver-gray. I’ve always known her like this. The color of her hair has been a fascination of mine. She’s beautiful, unique, and delicate beyond measure.

  But now that I know what it means, those strands of silver terrify me.

  The dark blood violet is the color of the strength of her bloodline. As it has half faded to silver-white, it means she’s lost energy. Lost power.

  I should have expected it—it’s been ten years. But seeing it makes me realize our days are numbered. In ten years, half her energy is gone. In another ten, she may be entirely taken by her own curse.

  I try to distract myself, closing my eyes. When I do, I see nothing but her, as she used to be in our school days. Remote, indifferent to all, especially me. Proud. She used to tie her hair in complicated knots that completely hid its color. I loved her hair. It was striking, and looked so soft. I’ve always wanted to touch it.

  I want to turn back. I have to turn back. I should never have come here in the first place.

  Instead, I take one step, and then another, until I stand right next to her.

  Curled up on the bed next to her, there’s a bundle of black fur I mistake for a throw until it breathes, its chest rising and falling. I blink, watching the creature raise its head and set its fiery eyes on me.

  A wyrfox. I’ve never seen one this tame—or this close.

  The way it looks at me suggests that if I made one wrong move, my fingers would be gone.

  I ignore the underlying threat, redirecting my attention where it belongs. As I approach, the fox hisses like an angry cat, and leaps off the bed. The wyr slinks back to the shadows of the night, hopping off the window.

  “Vlari.” I didn’t mean to say her name out loud. I haven’t—not in ten years. But I call to her today.

  There are plenty of things I want to say. Stay with us. Stay with me. Come back to me.

  I kneel next to the bed, a hand hovering over hers. I daren’t touch her. I don’t want to feel how cold she is.

  How dead she is.

  Vlari has sacrificed her life’s energy to power the wards that have saved our people. Almost half of Tenebris is behind the walls of Whitecroft, safe from our invaders, thanks to her.

  And we’re losing her.

  I let my hand wrap around hers. My eyes fly to my grasp.

  She isn’t cold at all. She’s warm, and her pulse feels strong.

  I look to her serene face, taking in her long-lashed closed eyes haloed by gray shadows.

  Then, progressively, she disappears, fading away before my very eyes. I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything at all.

  I get to my feet, ready to call the guards. There’s sorcery at work.

  Instead, I freeze in shock.

  Vlari is standing right in front of me. She isn’t wearing that dreadful dress at all; she’s in green pants, with her leather boots and a loose linen shirt tucked at the waist.

  And she’s grinning at me, as if everything in the world is fine. As if this makes sense.

  “About time you came to see me.”

  Promises

  Drusk

  The sound of my heartbeat resonates in my ears. I can’t speak. I can’t think. I can only stare and gape.

  “I’m still asleep,” she says next.

  I give up trying to make sense of any of it. I take a seat on her bed and close my eyes in an attempt to banish the migraine brewing after all this confusion.

  “You’re in my mind right now.”

  I sigh and give up, opening my eyes again. I have to look at her, illusion or no.

  “So, I’m dreaming?”

  She shakes her head, and waves around the room. I notice it isn’t quite the one I walked into. It looks like it had when I last saw her here ten years ago—with the professors’ chairs scattered around the walls and fireplace, bookshelves, a desk. “Not at all. If anyone walk
s in, they’ll see you next to me, your hand in mine. I suppose you’d look peculiar. Like a statue.” She grimaces. “Sorry. It makes you rather vulnerable, you know.”

  I want to tell her I don’t care.

  I keep my mouth shut, letting her go on. Letting her talk.

  Letting her be alive.

  I missed her voice. I missed seeing her, and she was right there. For an instant, I pretend nothing else mattered.

  “Pulling you into my mind doesn’t cost me much energy when I’m touching you,” she explains. “I was so very bored until I worked out how to do this. I could feel Mother brushing my hair, and I wished I could speak to her. Then, suddenly, I was doing just that!”

  I can’t begin to untangle my emotions, or make sense of them. There’s some anger, directed at myself, at her mother, at the world. And at Vlari herself.

  No one told me anything. No one told me she could talk, that she was awake—that she was fine. And no one had told me what she’d planned before she cursed herself. I didn’t get to say goodbye because I hadn’t mattered to anyone in charge. I hadn’t mattered to her.

  If Vlari had asked her mother to get me here, I know the queen would have done so. She hadn’t. She hadn’t cared to see me.

  All the rage and sorrow muffled under the pile of ice that has surrounded my heart surfaced.

  I hate her.

  I hate her and all I can think about is touching her. Marking her. Pressing on her skin hard enough to leave bruises, so that she can feel me and remember me.

  She tilts her head. “Pixie got your tongue?”

  The pixie got my balls and crushed them in her grasp.

  When I fail to respond, the teasing grin fades. She sighs. “How are you doing, Drusk?”

  I’m a wreck. I’m undone, and moments away from exploding.