The Lion & the Deathless Dark — Chapter 22

C HA P T E R T W E NT Y-T WO

oly fucking gods, everything hurt.

That was the first coherent thought to materialize.H I was on a hard floor. I rolled over, much to the very loud disapproval of my poor, mangled arm. But I appreciated the pain. It made it easier not to think about the image that leaked through my closed eyes—a monstrous amalgamation of too many different burning fortresses and too many different dead innocents.

My fingers found Zefiah’s hilt easily and folded around it so tight they

trembled.

There you are. {I am always here.} “Mother’s sake, what happened to you?” a shocked, unfamiliar male voice said.

“Not an exciting tale, it turns out,” Septimus’s voice replied.

A pause. The voice, lower, more worried, said, “Are you—”

“Leave us.”

Hesitation.

“Leave us,” Septimus repeated, more sharply.

I opened my eyes and sat up just in time to see a fair-haired man casting us a curious, skeptical look over his shoulder as he reluctantly closed the door behind him.

We were in a small circular room, clean but clearly old—a tile floor with a few cracks running through it, a desk at the center with a few pieces of parchment neatly stacked atop it, and a single small bookcase against the

wall. There was one wooden door, which our companion had just closed, and three metal arches lined the room, each covered by curtains. The one behind me still rippled.

Aethergates. But they looked different than the ones back home. More similar to the door Septimus worked on in the House of Shadow. {We are not in Obitraes,} Zefiah said. {But we are also not in Oketia.

Nor in any human kingdom I know of.} Septimus stood. His back was to me, and his head bowed. He was

working at a button on his sleeve.

“Where are we?” I asked.

My voice sounded pathetically weak.

“A small island, far off the coast of Obitraes.”

“A Bloodborn island?”

Septimus didn’t answer. {It is Bloodborn,} Zefiah said. {An island to act as their hub of transport. They must do this often. Hijack aethergates. Befitting of leeches, I suppose.} One of my eyes stung fiercely. I laid Zefiah on the ground and touched my brow. My fingers came away coated in blood and . . .

I stared down, brow furrowed, numb, at the fleshy substance on my

fingertips.

Brains, I realized. That girl’s brains.

Vomit careened up my throat. I clamped my teeth hard to keep it down.

I didn’t want to speak. Yet the words came before I could stop them.

“What will happen to them?” I said. “The people back there? Are they all dead?”

Septimus didn’t turn around. “Likely. The Shadowborn will kill them all before the Nightborn take pity on them.”

He said it so casually. As if there was nothing at all notable about the deaths of a thousand innocents. {This is no surprise,} Zefiah said. {The fallen ones do not respect life.

Not even the lives of their own. This is the darkness of the world they have created.} She, too, was matter-of-fact about it. And not long ago, that wouldn’t have fazed me. I was matter-of-fact about it, too. When Val had wanted to save those people chained up in the cultists’ manor, I had rolled my eyes as if she had been railing against the movement of clouds in the sky.

People suffer. People die. No part of it is fair. But it is how it is.

But perhaps my friends’ deaths had knocked loose whatever seal I’d built against that anger. Because I felt it now—fierce and uncontrollable, ripped apart like that child’s body.

I stood up, head spinning with the force of the movement.

“Just like that? Likely. Like you’re talking about the chance of rain tonight.”

His head turned, just enough to show me a sliver of his profile. “Would you expect me to be more emotional about it?”

The words were smooth, quiet. And yet they sliced through the air sharper than I’d ever heard his voice before, like he too had unsheathed something violent and raw that he’d been keeping at bay.

A feral part of me leaped at that, like a dog presented with a piece of rotten meat. Yes. Fight me. Let’s make it hurt. Make me angry at someone other than myself.

“I suppose not,” I said. “Humans are only livestock in the eyes of murderous animals, right?”

The words, as some part of me had known they would, struck their target precisely.

Septimus whirled around. His entire form was taut, his back straight, his eyes sharp, his expression still as glass. His once pristine white suit was now covered in blood—the black of vampire, the red of humans, intermingling like paint on a canvas.

“You know, Kyrene,” he said, “I have been watching you for a very long time. I’ve seen the way you butcher your own people while they regard you like you’re some kind of savior. We don’t have to pretend with each other. Monsters recognize monsters.” His lips twisted into a snarl as he approached me, step by measured step. “At least I have reasons for what I do. I didn’t make the Shadowborn murder those people. I didn’t make them torture them or breed them like cattle. If you want to hate someone, hate them. Or maybe hate yourself for making the foolish decisions that put us in that room. Don’t hate me for making the ones that got us out of it.”

I let out a rough laugh, practically a growl.

“I’m supposed to say thank you when you tell me you engineered a war that took a million lives?”

Another step. His pupils were dilated, nearly swallowing the ring of silvery-amber color around them, and I noticed with a start that his left eye

was flooding dark red—as if a blood vessel in it had burst, overtaking the whites of his eyes, spreading from his tear duct.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes. You would be on your fucking knees thanking me if you knew. I’ve saved this world from horrors you can’t even dream.”

“What a hero you are,” I sneered. “I don’t need to dream. I’ve seen it all. I’ve witnessed what Bloodborn vampires do to their prey. If you want me to stop calling you animals, stop acting like them.”

Suddenly, he was right in front of me, hand planted on the wall over my shoulder. My heart beat quick in my chest, spurred on by a tantalizing mix of anger and fear. His face was only inches from my own. He didn’t touch me at all. And yet, I was more aware than I ever had been of my own human weakness.

For all my goading, I had never witnessed Septimus like this, feral and

bloodthirsty.

Until now.

His lip was curled, his teeth bared. Red now filled his left eye, and had started on his right.

“You are such a petulant child.” I could feel his breath on my face.

“Blind to the pain of anyone but yourself. Blind to how much worse that pain could be. How old are you? Twenty-seven? You weep over ten years of suffering. My people have been suffering for thousands of years. We have made sacrifices that you cannot possibly understand. Friends, family, died so that we can undertake this mission. Do you know how many people sacrificed to put that weapon in our hands? That weapon you so carelessly let Srana take away from us? Every decision I have made is calculated.

Thousands of them.”

His teeth were inches from my throat. Zefiah was in my hands, but if he’d decided to kill me, I wouldn’t be able to raise her quickly enough. I lifted my chin, a dare.

“So fucking noble of you,” I spat. “You want me to mourn your sacrifices? Mine were the ones in your collateral damage. The faceless sacrifices that you deemed acceptable. Mine.” My voice broke around the word, and in that breath, I saw them all. Every dead body. Every tragedy that we were supposed to just accept as another harsh reality of this world.

He scoffed, the violent noise harsh against my skin. “Don’t pretend that you have moral qualms about it, Vindica Ultis. You only wish you cared, because then perhaps it would make you as good as the ones you let die.”

He leaned closer, pinning me against the wall. His mouth was a hair from my throat as he ran it slowly up, until his lips brushed my ear. And for a moment, it hovered there, his breath catching slightly, and my muscles tensed. {Strike him!} Zefiah commanded, raging against my stillness.

But Septimus only hissed, “It won’t. Not for either of us. So let’s not pretend.”

And then, all at once, he was gone, the open door swaying behind him and his footsteps echoing down the hall.

I BREATHED a string of curses as I attempted to peel off my shirt. It was so crusted with blood and guts and who-knew-what-else that it stuck to my every wound, breaking scabs and re-opening cuts. My arm was so brutally mangled that I could barely move it at all, and certainly could not lift it enough to get my shirt off over my head.

I stared at myself in the mirror. One long, jagged crack sliced my reflection into two halves that didn’t quite match up. There was probably a

metaphor in there somewhere.

I looked pathetic.

I had taken off my pants—equally repugnant—but the shirt remained a problem. My body was so covered in wounds and gore that there was no way to tell which blood belonged to me and which belonged to others. The sole of my left foot, the one that had been apparently stomping on a sharp rock for the entirety of my entranced walk to Kastivai, was caked in brown- red. Scratches and bruises snaked up my legs like some kind of grotesque blossom tree. My hair was half undone, my braid snarled and knotted and,

of course, covered in brains.

I was disgusting.

This thought flitted through my mind, and then, for some reason, as I

stared at myself, it echoed again: I am disgusting.

{Yes,} Zefiah said sweetly, {but all things considered, it cannot be

helped, can it?} I had no snarky retort for her.

I hadn’t seen Septimus again since he stormed off. Instead, when I’d wandered out into the hall—limped out, more like it—the Bloodborn man had intercepted me and led me upstairs, to a small hallway with several doors. He showed me to a small bedchamber with an attached washroom. It was tiny and plain, but it had an actual bed, which put it ahead of many places I’d slept in the last ten years.

“So what is this place?” I’d asked. “Some sort of military outpost?”

But the man had simply ignored me and closed the door.

Leaving me to the daunting—perhaps, I was coming to admit, physically impossible—task of peeling myself from the layer of grime and guts like a caterpillar emerging from a cocoon. {You will not look like a butterfly once it is done,} Zefiah helpfully pointed out.

Thanks, Zefiah. I appreciate that you’re so encouraging.

I eyed my shoulder in the mirror—where the blood seeping through my shirt was caked so thick that it stuck to my skin. The pain had gotten better, which very easily could be a bad thing. Loss of sensation seemed like bad

news.

Gods fucking damn it. {You will have to cut that shirt off.} Even Zefiah sounded like she felt bad for me.

I touched my belt. My dagger was missing—perhaps taken from me by the Shadowborn when I was entranced. Shit.

I eyed Zefiah, who lay across the bed. {That would be unwise,} she said, seeing my intention.

I promise I won’t accidentally stab myself in the heart. {You can barely control your own arms. I am destined to end you one day, Kyrene. I would prefer that day not be today.} That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. {Do not get too sentimental. I merely would rather drink the blood of gods before I drink from your rancid heart.} Rancid, huh?

I couldn’t be too offended. I did, literally, smell like I was rotting. Just another carcass.

I touched my head, fingers finding the clump of brain, stomach

clenching.

Gods fucking damn it.

A knock sounded at the door.

I whirled around quickly enough that my body scolded me for it.

Zefiah’s blade flared, the dim room briefly doused in gold. {It is him.} Her disgust was palpable. And relatable.

I bit back a curse, casting another glance at my pathetic visage in the mirror. I did not want to be seen like this. Without trousers no less.

“Go away,” I called.

“I brought you medicine.”

I swallowed another curse. Godsdamn it. That was actually a good reason for him to be here.

He sounded different. Or maybe, he sounded the same again. Calm, smooth, and just a little smug. No hint of the animalistic anger I’d glimpsed downstairs.

“Leave it at the door,” I said. “I’m changing.”

“I am certainly not leaving it at the door. This is precious stuff, and I need to make sure it gets where it needs to be—especially after you wasted the last one.”

After I wasted the last one? The fucking nerve.

“I can treat my own wounds, thank you,” I shot back. “I’ve been doing it long enough.”

But as the words came out of my mouth, a slew of memories struck me, reminding me of all the ways they weren’t true. Not the last few years.

Mirie had gotten good at stitches. By the end.

“I know you well enough by now, dove, that I do not put it past you to let yourself die because you won’t ask for help. You are useless to me dead, and you are useless to me without a sword arm. Let me in.”

I could practically hear his pompous fucking smirk.

I glanced at Zefiah, silently hoping that, what with all her very public revulsion, she’d have some kind of retort offering an alternative solution.

But she was silent.

Thanks for nothing, Zef. {As I said, Kyrene, I still long for gods’ blood before I drink yours.} I rolled my eyes and threw open the door.

The scent of vanilla enveloped me. Septimus was wearing fresh clothes —white, as always. His face was clean. His eyes were back to their normal, icy shade. His hair was pushed back from his face, save for one stubborn ashy strand that curled over his forehead.

I looked him up and down. “What, does every outpost in the House of Blood keep a few special outfits just for you?”

“You look lovely too, Kyrene.”

There was always something about the way he said my name that made the sound run up my spine. I didn’t like it.

I stared at him, eyes narrowed. At first glance, he appeared to be his usual calculated self. But there was an odd, rough edge to his voice, a slight hoarseness, a tiredness when he said my name. The darkness under his eyes was pronounced. And if I looked closely, I could still see the spots of blood under his nails and in his hair.

He’d pulled himself together as quickly as possible and then rushed over here. In his hurry, he’d left a few stitches loose. I couldn’t tell whether I found that satisfying or disconcerting.

“Medicine?” I said, extending my good arm.

“Let me in.”

“I don’t want you here.”

His gaze flicked impassively over me.

“You have brains in your hair.”

“I don’t want you here,” I repeated.

“Do you not want me here more than you don’t want brains in your

hair?”

I considered this.

At my silence, he chuckled. “Never before have I felt inferior to gore.”

“I love gore.”

“Clearly.”

But then I thought of whose brains it belonged to—thought of the bolt splitting that girl’s face in two right in front of me, right when she was just two steps from freedom. All at once, the thought of going even a single second longer without washing this off seemed like physical torture.

With a sigh, I stepped aside and let him in.