Читать книгу Dark Hunter's Touch - Jessa Slade - Страница 5

Prologue

The old Lord of the Hunt had finally unleashed his passions, and the phaedrealii—the court of the steel-born fey—ran black with blood.

The Hunter whelp, who was still very much leashed and would be until he had full control of his magics, crawled between the thin, grubby bodies of his young brethren, chained near him. They should have snapped and growled at him for such impunity, and he would have growled and snapped back.

Now, a few groaned, but most of them lay silent and unmoving.

The steel-spiked collar dragged at his neck, but the deadweight of his half-severed wing was heavier, though he tried to ignore the twisted burden.

The agony and dread were heaviest though he tried not to feel that either.

He edged toward the full-fledged Hunter, fallen just moments ago, minus his head, hands still raised defensively. The Hunter had not believed he would be slain by his lord and master. Biting back a whimper that would mean his own death, the whelp avoided the head with its open-mouthed expression of shock.

The old Lord paced. The blood of his rampage was invisible on his widespread ebony wings, but the rusty-sweet scent swirled around him. The violent agitation in every boot step thudded through the ground and made the whelp quake as if his bones were cracking inside him from the tightly bound terror.

“You have brought this upon us, Queen of the Steel-Born, Queen of Lies!” The cry shivered the very walls. Mad he might be, but the Dark Lord of the Wild Hunt had magics to rival the Queen herself.

And now he had turned his might against the phaedrealii.

Too late, the whelp understood why the courtiers who had passed through the compound had circumspectly sought the Hunters’ assurances that their Lord was not suffering from the Undoing. An Undone phae let his sentiments run amok, a lack of restraint forbidden since the Queen had ascended to the Steel Throne centuries ago. The Hunters had scoffed at the courtiers’ fretting. No phae had come Undone since the Hunt began enforcing the Queen’s edict upon pain of death.

But death had come for the Hunters instead, and the whelp knew the unabated gush of blood over his shoulder meant he was on the same path.

He froze as the old Lord swept past. His seeping blood crystallized in jet-black beads from the force of the ancient Hunter’s wrath when the phae bellowed, “Ankha, you vicious bitch. You were my Undoing! Do you hear me?”

“Lord Hunter, every being in the phaedrealii, and the sunlit world too, has heard you.”

At the soft rejoinder, the old Lord turned to face his Queen. His fuming breath frosted the suddenly icy air.

The whelp shivered helplessly and reached for the ring clenched on the dead Hunter’s hand. The steel band froze his skin as he tugged, but the pain of his ripping fingertips was nothing compared to his wing, and the amber stone nestled in the metal was still faintly warm. He clenched it in his palm and dragged his hand to his chest. The stone—the likes of which would have been his one day had he become a Hunter full fledged—returned him a small measure of strength.

The Queen glided forward. With her white gown and her hair in a white corona, she glowed softly in the whelp’s fading vision. Her voice was softer yet, so the whelp doubted any of the phae courtiers gathering in the shadows heard her, aside from himself and the old Lord. “I will not let you do this, Lord Hunter.”

“Call me by my name, my Queen.”

“I told you I would not. This is why.”

The old Lord’s face twisted. “Lies. All lies.”

“And the blood?” She lifted the hem of her pure white skirts—spattered now with black and crimson—to point the toe of her gore-stained slipper. “Also a lie?”

The tangled lines of his face deepened. “The price of true passion. Mine and yours, the phae’s…”

“The first never was, and the last cannot be.”

“Without the Hunters to enforce your ruthless edict, it will be.”

“No,” the whelp whispered. Not that anyone heard him.

But the Queen also said, “No.”

She raised her hands, and the glow around her edges expanded like crystals of hoarfrost. Behind her, the gathered courtiers exhaled as she drew her power through them.

But the old Lord also raised his hand. Though the triangular glass sword clutched in his grasp did not gleam through the blood, its bone handle was as white as the madman’s knuckles. It sang the hunger of the Undoing, and the song was sharp as steel, sweet as blood, bright as starlight in the deepest veil of night.

The whelp ducked his head down into his shoulders to block the seductive sound. The motion wrenched his wing into fresh agony, and he cried out just as the old Lord charged the Queen.

The whelp smashed the amber stone against his spiked collar. Light, shining like the sun he had heard stories of, burst asunder.

He cowered, as the old Lord whirled back with a surprised shout....

The Queen only smiled and loosed her power at the Lord’s back in a boom of thunder....

Half blinded, half deafened, half dead, the whelp drifted for a heartbeat....

Until a gentle touch on his cheek roused him.

“Here now, you mustn’t cry.”

He cracked open his swollen eyes. At first he thought the Queen, white and beautiful, had deigned to speak to a Hunter’s whelp. But no, it was just a silly little sylfana, younger and smaller than him. Her short white wing buds, not yet unfurled, stuck out awkwardly from her shoulders, bared by her palest pink shift. Even at the peak of their power, sylfana could barely fly. They mostly danced and sang and flitted around the court, their laughter as shiny and empty as mirrored bells. When she came into her knack, she would be nothing but a reflection of the idle whims and pleasures of the phaedrealii.

But at least her wing wasn’t hacked half through by the Lord Hunter’s bespelled sword.

“I wasn’t crying,” he croaked.

She wrinkled her nose, easing the strain the Queen’s draw of power had left on her heart-shaped face, and held up her finger. A droplet sparkled. “I won’t let them see.”

He looked away from the startling blue clarity of her too-knowing gaze.

Behind her, phae were milling through the destruction. Some of the courtiers had swooned, drained by the Queen’s demand. No one attended the black-winged corpses though. Even in death, most phae avoided Hunters.

Except this silly sylfana who knelt at his side. Between her bare toes, the end of his leash lay coiled in the dirt and blood. How had she struck the chain? Every other link was pure iron, sapping his phae magics until he was strong enough to control himself. A sylfana should have fled, shrieking, from the metal ore.

Reluctantly, the whelp’s gaze slid back to her. “Where are my brothers?”

“Five are dead, two stayed hidden and won’t come out, and three are wounded, though none as badly as you.” She curled her hand into her lap, her fingertip still glistening with his tear.

He closed his eyes. When the patrolling Hunters returned, they would choose a new Lord Hunter from their ranks and deal with the dead. And then they would deal with him.

A wingless Hunter could not hunt. A Hunter who could not hunt was…nothing.

“You were so brave,” she murmured. “No one else stood up to him.”

“I could not even stand.” And now he would never fly.…

“To fly? Is that what you want?”

Had he let the wistful words escape him aloud? He opened his eyes to glare his fury at her. “I am Hunter-born. A Hunter needs his wings to find what he hunts.”

She stared back at him, idly winding a lock of her hair around her finger. The shining strands held all the colors of the amber he had smashed: copper, gold, and bronze. “Do you know what a sylfana does?”

“I know you’ll never reach even the lowest clouds,” he snapped.

“We have the power of wishes.”

The whelp sneered as he had seen the older Hunters do when they complained about the sylfana who served a parallel court function to the Hunt, acting as the Queen’s lures. Where Hunters were the bullet, the sylfana were the hook, wielding temptation and enticement in place of violence, equally merciless but masked in pleasures, the precise nature of which remained frustratingly unspoken around the whelps.

But for the first time, the whelp understood the anger—and the longing—in his older brothers’ voices. He leaned away from the sylfana. “I don’t need your wishes.”

“It is not my wish.” She reached around herself to poise her tear-dampened fingertip over the bud of her wing where the first scalloped edge was just appearing. “It’s yours.”

He shifted. “You can’t do that. It’s magic.”

“Of course it’s magic. We are phae.” She touched the tight furling of white. When she lifted her finger, the tiny scales glittered alongside the salt of his tear.

He watched, warily, as she stretched her hand toward his shoulder where the joint of his wing had been so horribly slashed. He stiffened. “I don’t think—”

“It’s just a wish. Are you scared?”

He was. “No.”

“I am. Just a little.” She smiled at him, and he knew he would never forget the light in her blue eyes. “Ready?”

He wasn’t. “Yes.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. The sweet scent of her breath and phae magic banished the stink of blood, and he found himself leaning toward her. She touched him.

The fire went through him in a ferocious blaze, a thousand times worse than the prismatic sword’s edge or the Queen’s thunder. He screamed but could not pull away.

“Hush. It won’t always feel like this.”

But it would. He knew he would always feel like this.