Fury Bound (The Wolves of Ruin, #2) — Chapter no 34

34

MERYN

can’t look away. Alongside my instinctive horror is a brutal, morbidI curiosity. The woman’s head tilts back. She sighs with apparent pleasure, her expression transforming into ecstasy as Lucien drinks deeply, his amused gaze still on mine.

Around the table, the other Siphons similarly begin to feed from the humans who have joined them, treating the activity as casually as we might regard cutting into a steak.

Sintar brings her head up after feasting at her human’s neck. She runs her fingers across the woman’s bloody cheek, then lazily licks each finger.

The human is now languid, sprawling across Sintar’s lap.

The fate we thought we were saving her from, playing out in a far more demeaning and public way.

It’s not surprising, theoretically—of course we know they drink blood.

And Elias did claim, on the road, that many humans are… willing participants. Even the woman from the town technically consented to this over other punishment.

Still, my cheeks grow hot with anger and dismay.

Something about this is so rude.

My friends agree. Stark’s chair screeches only slightly, like he was about to get up and act but just barely managed to stop himself, remembering our mission here. Venna’s hand moves to where her weapon is concealed, though her face remains carefully neutral.

Noemi’s face has drained entirely of color. She stares at Lucien in hatred and revulsion. It’s obvious enough that the Siphon next to her is glaring at

her.

I can’t blame her. The woman in Lucien’s lap sinks further and further into her euphoric surrender—so much so that she lets out a soft moan. It’s a lustful scene and disturbingly similar to watching King Cyril play with his “companion” on his lap.

The air grows warmer. The sounds of the feeding are… distractingly wet. And as the humans give in to whatever’s happening, they all start sighing or letting out small moans.

It’s hard to imagine that my sister may one day feed in the same way.

In fact, she and our father might be feeding the same way at this very moment. I suppress a shudder.

The woman on Lucien’s lap gasps lightly as he removes his fangs. He reaches up and presses the pad of his thumb to his lips, then drags it over his bloodied mouth, licking it lightly as if to avoid wasting a drop.

Then those blue eyes dart down to my untouched plate of food. “Not fond of your host’s offerings?”

He’s implying I’m being rude, but he just sucked a woman’s throat in front of me for thirty seconds straight, so who’s he to talk?

“No,” I tell him coolly. “I don’t trust the food.”

Lucien chuckles. “Do you truly think I would have Elias bring you all this way just to poison you?”

He doesn’t wait for my response before reaching around the blissed-out woman in his lap and plucking a piece of meat from my plate. He reclines back in his chair and nudges the meat against the woman’s lips, who parts them and bites down.

I grimace as she chews. Lucien looks back, sees my disgusted expression, and bares his fangs in a grin like it’s funny.

“See? The food is fine.”

I lean forward and narrow my eyes. “Are you finished making a spectacle of yourself? I’m ready to talk about why you brought me here.”

Lucien sighs and mutters something under his breath. Then he runs a gentle hand down the woman’s arm and says, “You may go, sweetness.”

She smiles at him, bows her head, and stands to leave, swaying slightly.

And when she does, so do the other humans, all standing and shuffling out at once—some in less than straight lines—toward the exits.

The human woman stands up at the end of the table. She picks up her

breastplate and sword, movements slow and uncertain. My gut twists.

“What will happen to her?” I ask quietly.

Lucien waves a hand. “Oh, she’s fine. She’ll sleep it off and then be returned to where she lives.”

My eyes burn, and I start to truly hate him.

Lucien leans toward me. He’s not smiling any longer. His eyes are serious and clear.

“Alistair Brightbane is my older brother, but I inherited the throne instead of him. This entire war has been his vengeance. He wants to conquer Astreona and take back what he believes is his birthright.”

I stare at him, agape, sickness building in my stomach.

Five centuries of war, he’s trying to tell me—countless lives lost, endless hours of grief-stricken tears, a conflict that has shaped the entire history and culture of Nocturna—all stem from a family dispute over

succession?

A squabble between brothers.

All the sacrifice and suffering my people have endured, the system of exploitation and oppression our false kings built around the war effort… Could this possibly be true? That none of it was truly about protecting Nocturna from bloodthirsty monsters?

If Lucien’s being honest, we were all nothing but expendable toy soldiers. Pawns in a power struggle between immortal brothers who cared nothing for how many lived and died at their whims.

Shock passes through the communication bond. Everyone heard Lucien’s words echoing from the vaulted ceilings. Everyone’s grappling with the same loss and anger.

“Tell me I misheard that,” Venna begs. “Surely, surely, this entire war hasn’t been so meaningless.” Her voice silences the quiet conversations being shared by the other Siphons.

Lucien glances down the table at her, something in his gaze heating as he assesses her. Is he going to scold her for speaking out of turn? My hand creeps toward my dagger again, but eventually he says, “What is war if not a meaningless battle of egos?”

“How dare you?” I snap. “This may have felt meaningless to you, but we’ve lost so many lives. People with loved ones who believed they were sacrificing themselves for a greater good.”

I can’t think about my father. I can’t.

“And how do you expect me to believe this?” I ask. “You’re telling us that our entire history, everything our country knows, is a lie. Not just some of it. All of it. But you’re the ones with mind-control powers, not us.”

Lucien puts his elbow on the table and his face in his palm, looking at me with a bit of boredom, like I’m being dense. “Yes, that’s true, I suppose.

But the Siphon on your throne had mind-control powers, too, did he not?

Why would we also use them against you?”

I press my lips together. Yes—Alistair used blood magic and mind control to erase the history of my family line.

“To what end are you accusing us of using our powers against you?” he continues. “You think we’re the ones who have lied to you throughout history? Or do you think I’m trying to trick you right now at this moment?”

Before I can get a word in edgewise, he continues onward, his voice drawling.

“As with your accusations that I’ve poisoned your food, I think you’ll find that tampering with your mind would go against my purposes. Why would I have brought you all this way to persuade you to work together, if I could have just had my standard-bearers alter your minds back at the border? Besides, you seem to have a complete misunderstanding of how the power works. I forget how little you Nocturnans know.”

Would it be considered rude if I stabbed one of these fine forks through his hand?

“Enlighten us,” I say through clenched teeth.

Lucien pauses. I wait. If he’s going to earn our trust, he needs to be willing to share information with us. Real information.

Giving a dramatic sigh, he finally responds. “The type of power you’re thinking of, like Alistair performed, requires incredible magical strength and constant replenishment. Most Siphons are only capable of creating illusions, as vanishing as smoke. Yes, some of us have a level of mind control ability, but only over those who are under a thrall or those we’ve recently drunk from.”

Thrall. The word wriggles into me like a parasite, sinks under my skin.

His eyes glint with self-assured amusement. “The spies that have crossed our border over the years, for instance. We capture them, drink from them, alter their memories, and send them happily back to your country.”

“What you said—under a thrall?”

“A unique connection between Siphon and human that requires an exchange of blood from both parties. But enough magical theory. I understand why you don’t want to believe me, so why don’t you let me show you?” Lucien says. “Let me convince you that we’re on the same side, Meryn Sturmfrost.”

Stark leans toward me protectively as Lucien reaches up and lifts the sun-bolt crown from his hair. It glints as he brings it forward.

“Put it on,” Lucien says.

I eye the Tear in the crown. It looks identical to the two I have—the one in my crown, the one around Saela’s neck. “What is this?”

“Surely you know these jewels have power?” Lucien says with a little smile.

That’s one of the few things we’ve successfully deduced so far. The crown seems to give me more magical strength when I wear it, as did Saela’s necklace. The Tears clearly have some magical properties to them.

But Saela has come up empty on any other information about them.

“Yes, I’m aware.” I want to ask more, find out if he has information about the Tears that we don’t. This is not the time for me to show Lucien any weakness, though. “I’m asking you what you’re doing.”

“And I already told you,” he replies, keeping his offer aloft, “I’m showing you what you want to know.”

I still don’t trust him. The magic in the stones is ancient, and so is he.

Lucien might know how to use his Tear against me somehow. But his eyes are keen. He’s seen how badly I want answers, and he knows I’m going to accept.

So I stop fighting it. Reaching up, I untangle my own crown from my hair and pass it to Stark for safekeeping. Then, I take hold of Lucien’s.

The moment the metal settles over my head, I plummet. It’s just like it was when I first put on my crown, if slightly less violent, slightly blurrier.

I can’t make out nearly as many details as I did when I witnessed Queen Chiara, but judging by the pale stone and regal furniture, I’m in a room in the Astreonan castle.

Staggering slightly, I float out of my skin, then settle back into my bones.

Just as I get my bearings, there’s a soft moan from behind me. I spin

around, thinking someone is wounded or dying. Readying myself for the

pain of tragedies long past.

But it’s not pain I heard.

My mouth drops open and my hand flies up to block out the scene before me. I’m in a lavishly decorated bedroom, the candlelight low and flickering.

And Lucien is in flagrante with three other people on a massive bed.

There’s a woman to his left, a man to his right, and another woman between his legs. They’re all naked, and it’s just skin and bodies and sweat.

Seriously? I want to scream. The fucking bastard took me to a vision of

an orgy.

What is wrong with this guy?

I knew I was right about him. He’s messing with me. Of course he is.

He’s hundreds of years old and probably bored.

I spin back around, covering my heated cheeks with my hands and trying to unsee and unhear all of it.

The moment I turn, the door in front of me slams open against the wall so hard it bounces back and rattles. A dark-haired, older-looking woman is at the door.

“Your fa—” She gasps and stumbles back as if she’s been slapped. Then she lifts her hand to protect herself from the visual assault the same way I did. “Lucien! For crying out loud!”

Lucien chuckles from his bed as the man kisses down his neck, clearly unbothered by this woman’s sudden presence.

She keeps her eyes skyward and sighs deeply. I have the sudden suspicion this is a common occurrence.

“The king has called an emergency council meeting. You need to come right away.”

“Everyone hear her?” Lucien replies with a smile, letting his head drop back briefly before lifting it again. “It’s time to come.”

“Right away,” one of the women giggles out. The other woman lowers her mouth between Lucien’s legs again, enthusiastically following orders.

The older woman gives up and pins Lucien with her glare. Her hands curl into fists, and her delicately arranged hair quivers against her cheeks.

“Lucien. I don’t have time for your frivolities. Your father needs you, now. It’s about Alistair.”

Lucien immediately sits up. His smile is gone. His bedmates complain, moving away from him. His chest rises and falls a few times as he stares at the woman in the doorway, then he’s shifting to stand.

I curse under my breath and turn my eyes away as he quickly dresses his admittedly chiseled body. His partners have started back up, apparently unbothered by his absence.

I’m grateful to leave them behind as Lucien follows the woman’s hurried gait down the halls. They don’t exchange a single word all the way to what looks like a formal audience room with a throne on one end of the space.

I can’t make out much detail beyond the blur of long banners waving in the breeze from a wide-open balcony that stretches the length of the room.

A man sits on the throne, flanked by guards and attendants. He’s much clearer than his surroundings, with white-blond hair like Lucien’s and the same sun-bolt crown that brought me to this vision. He appears older than Lucien, maybe in his fifties if he weren’t a Siphon, and shares none of Lucien’s playful, feline charm.

This regent is serious. Angry, maybe, though it’s hard to tell whether the deep lines between his brows are just always there regardless of his mood.

The king—Lucien’s father—doesn’t greet his son as he arrives. He watches Lucien as he strides up toward the throne to take a lower seat beside him.

I follow Lucien, studying the tense expression on his face. It’s the same look he got in his eyes when he told me about Alistair’s vendetta.

Serious, clear, penetrating. He looks more like his stern father when he stares forward like this.

The doors burst open once more. Guards appear dressed in sparse but elegant half-plate armor, dragging with them a disoriented-looking man.

Their prisoner looks so much like Killian I almost recoil. He has the exact same sweetly deceitful eyes, the same shade of dark blond hair, the same pointed features. My stomach knots.

The guards throw him down onto the pale pink stone floor. He cries out on impact and remains kneeling as he lifts his head.

Stay on all fours, dog, I growl internally.

“There’s been a very serious accusation against you, Alistair,” the king says, staring down at his son icily. I’d freeze over entirely if that look were

directed at me. “It is said that you have been creating thrall bracelets.”

That word again. Thrall.

Alistair looks up at his father with blatant shock on his face. “I… Father, I would never do such an abominable thing!”

His voice cracks. His eyes well. He looks so vulnerable and afraid.

Earnest. He looks like he isn’t lying.

The king nods to the guards. Through my vision, they move in a blur, reappearing moments later with additional people. Several men and women stand around Alistair, their expressions all grave.

The guards step forward and pull up the sleeves of the men and women, exposing bracelets on all of them—gold, with bloodred jewels at their centers.

My stomach bottoms out. My horror spills through the vision in a wave, staining everything in its color-drained dread.

Thrall bracelets.

Identical to the engagement bracelet shackled to my wrist.

The scene goes on despite my terror. Lucien leans back as if to create space between himself and what’s happening. His upper lip curls, and I swear he’s sharing in my revulsion. I don’t know what it all means yet, but the look Lucien wears is a warning.

Alistair’s face drops. His trembling, terrified act vanishes just as quickly as Killian’s kindness did. He straightens and shakes his head.

“Fine. You’ve caught me. But it’s for the good of our kingdom, Father.”

The king raises his hand abruptly. “I have no desire to hear your lies.

You’ve broken one of the foundational laws of Astreona, and in doing so, proved once and for all how unworthy you are of your royal name. You are to be exiled, and your brother, Lucien, instated as heir to my throne.”

Lucien whirls on his father, eyes widen with clear panic. “Wh-what?!”

“You cannot do that to me!” Alistair bellows. “I am your heir! Your firstborn! This is—”

“Quiet!” the king shouts. His voice moves like violence. Fast, fast, and then a heavy impact that settles over the room and starts to bruise. “This is how it will be. Alistair, I don’t ever want to see you near Brightbane again.”

Alistair’s hands curl into weapons.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Father,” he intones, blue eyes glinting for an instant before he shuts them.

I blink, and then the people wearing the thrall bracelets are glazing over, shivering, convulsing. Within the space of a moment, they explode into frantic motion, attacking everyone close to them.

Fangs flash. There are screams. Guards turn weapons on their captives.

Lucien bolts to his feet, watching the scene with wild eyes, and then runs to protect his father, the king.

But he’s too late. His father’s attendants have already turned on him, thrall bracelets flashing on their wrists. One of them fends off the loyal guards. Another draws a long dagger and swiftly beheads the king, face eerily dispassionate.

Lucien reaches his father just as it happens, catching the body as it slumps down over the throne, pouring blood. He howls in anger. Then he draws his weapons and strikes down the attendant who, I gather, acted not of his own accord.

In one smooth motion, Lucien snatches the Astreonan crown from where it fell to the ground, placing it on his head.

Suddenly, there are a dozen Luciens, each racing forward, sword upraised, in pursuit of Alistair. I’ve never seen Siphon magic like it, illusions so real and vivid, and visible to everyone at once.

It must be the crown amplifying Lucien’s power, I realize, and shiver.

I’m not the only one taken aback; the guards and attendants under Alistair’s control scatter and shout, confused by the convincing image of their prince attacking from all sides. Alistair barks orders at them, veins bulging in his face as he fights to maintain control of his unwilling army.

Here and there, I spot the real Lucien as he slaughters more of Alistair’s thralls. Lucien’s speed seems to have been buoyed by the crown’s powers as well. He moves so fast I can barely see him. He tears through their defenses with ease, cutting short scream after scream. Blood runs thick across the marble floors.

Alistair frantically summons more of his thralls to stand between himself and the line of advancing Luciens.

“You don’t want this, brother,” Alistair says almost gently, backing toward the door. “You and I both know it’s too much responsibility for you.”

He’s back to acting humble and misunderstood. How quickly he spins from personality to personality.

“You’re meant for a life of pleasure and luxury,” Alistair continues.

“Give the crown to me, let it be my burden.”

Lucien stares directly at his brother, eyes like ice as he cuts down another two thrall warriors. “Not a chance, you sadistic asshole.”

Alistair’s face contorts in a snarl. “You will live to regret this, Lucien. I promise, I will take my throne back. No matter the cost.”

And before Lucien can reach him, Alistair whirls away, vanishing out the door.