From Blood and Ash (Blood And Ash Series Book 1)

Without wasting one unnecessary second, we left my room and the Castle through the old servants’ access. We then moved like ghosts through the city until we found ourselves standing before an old, battered door.

The white handkerchief tacked just below the handle was the only reason the home in the Lower Ward of Masadonia was distinguishable from the other squat, narrow houses stacked on top of one another.

Glancing over his shoulder to where two City Guards chatted under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, Vikter quickly pulled the handkerchief off the door and slipped it into a pocket inside his dark cloak. The small, white cloth was a symbol of the network of people who believed death, no matter how violent or destructive, deserved dignity.

It was also evidence of high treason and disloyalty to the Crown.

I’d accidentally discovered what Vikter took part in when I was fifteen. He’d left one of our training sessions in a hurry one morning, and sensing that something was going on based on the mental pain the messenger had been throwing off, I’d followed.

Obviously, Vikter hadn’t been pleased. What he was doing was considered treasonous, and being caught wasn’t the only danger. However, I’d always been disturbed by how these things were typically handled. I demanded he allow me to help. He had said no—repeated it probably a hundred times—but I had been relentless, and besides, I was uniquely suited to assist in such matters. Vikter knew what I could do, and his empathy for others had aided my desire to help.

We’d been doing this for about three years now.

We weren’t the only ones. There were others. Some were guards. A few were citizens. I never met any. For all I knew, Hawke could be one.

My stomach dipped and then rolled before I shoved any thoughts of Hawke out of my mind.

Vikter quietly rapped his knuckles on the door and then returned his gloved hand to the hilt of his broadsword. A couple of seconds later, hinges creaked as the old battered door shuddered open, revealing the pale, round face, and red, puffy eyes of a woman. She might’ve been in her mid to late twenties, but the tense pinch to her brow and the lines bracketing her mouth made her appear decades older. The cause of her worn appearance had everything to do with the kind of pain that cut deeper than the physical and was caused by the smell wafting out of the building from behind her. Under the thick, cloying smoke of earthy incense, was the unmistakable sour and sickeningly sweet scent of rot and decay.

Of a curse.

“You’re in need of aid?” Vikter spoke low.

The woman fiddled with the button on her wrinkled blouse, her weary gaze darting from Vikter to me.

I opened my senses to her. Soul-deep pain radiated from her in waves I couldn’t see, but it was so heavy, it was almost a tangible entity surrounding her. I could feel it slicing through my cloak and clothing and scraping against my skin like rusty, icy nails. She felt like someone who was dying but hadn’t suffered a single injury or disease. That was how raw and potent her pain was.

Fighting the urge to take a step back, I shuddered inside my heavy cloak. Every instinct in me demanded that I put distance between us, get as far away as possible. Her grief formed iron shackles around my ankles, weighing me down as it tightened around my neck. Emotion clogged my throat, tasting like…like bitter desperation and sour hopelessness.

I pulled back my senses, but I had opened myself up for too long. I was tuned into her anguish now.

“Who is that?” she rasped, her voice hoarse with the tears I knew had swelled her eyes.

“Someone who can help you,” Vikter answered in a way I was all too familiar with. He used that calm tone whenever I was seconds away from acting out in anger and doing something entirely reckless—which, according to Vikter, was way too often. “Please. Allow us to enter.”

Fingers stilling around the button below her throat, she gave a curt nod and then stepped back. I followed Vikter inside, scanning the dimly lit room, which turned out to be a combined kitchen and living space. There was no electricity in the home, only oil lamps and fat, waxy candles. That wasn’t exactly surprising to see, even though electricity had been provided to the area of the Lower Ward, to light the streets and some of the businesses. Only the wealthy had it inside their homes, and they would not be found in the Lower Ward. They’d be closer to the center of Masadonia, near Castle Teerman and as far from the Rise as possible.

But here, the Rise loomed.

Drawing in a shallow breath, I tried not to focus on how the woman’s grief painted the walls and floors an oily black. Her pain had gathered here, among the knick-knacks and clay plates, quilted blankets with frayed edges and tired furniture. Clasping my hands together under the cloak, I took another breath, this one deeper, and looked around.

A lantern sat on a wooden table, next to several sticks of burning incense. Surrounding the brick hearth were several chairs. I zeroed in on the closed door on the other side of the fireplace. My hooded head tilted as I squinted. On the mantel, closest to the door, was a narrow spike of a blade the color of burgundy in the low light.

Bloodstone.

This woman had been prepared to handle this herself, and with the way she felt, that would be disastrous.

“What is your name?” Vikter asked as he reached up to lower the hood of his cloak. He always did this. Showed his face to comfort family or friends, to put them at ease. A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead as he turned to the woman.

I did not reveal myself.

“A-Agnes,” she answered, her throat working on a swallow. “I…I heard about the white handkerchief, but I…I wasn’t sure if anyone would come. I wondered if it was some kind of myth or a trick.”

“It’s no trick.” Vikter may be one of the deadliest guards in the entire city, if not the kingdom, but I knew when Agnes looked up into his blue eyes, all she saw was kindness. “Who is ill?”

Agnes swallowed once more, the skin around her eyes puckering as she briefly squeezed them shut. “My husband, Marlowe. He’s a Huntsman for the Rise, and…and he returned home two days ago—” Her breath caught, and she exhaled heavily. “He’d been gone for months. I was so happy to see him. I’d missed him terribly, and with each day, I feared he’d perished on the road. But he came back.”

My heart squeezed as if it had been caught in a fist. I thought of Finley. Had he been a Huntsman, a part of this group that involved Marlowe?

“He seemed a little under the weather at first, but that’s not uncommon. His work is exhausting,” she continued. “But he started…he started to show signs that night.”

“That night?” Only a small note of alarm had crept into Vikter’s tone, and my eyes widened with a whole cartload more dismay. “And you waited until now?”

“We hoped it was something else. A cold or the flu.” Her hand fluttered back to the buttons. Threads were beginning to show along the wooden discs. “I…I didn’t know until last night that it was something more. He didn’t want me to know. Marlowe is a good man, you understand? He wasn’t trying to hide it. H-he planned to take care of himself, but…”

“But the curse would not allow it,” Vikter finished for her, and she nodded.

I glanced back at the door. The curse progressed differently for everyone. It took hold for some in a matter of hours, while for others, it could take a day or two. But I knew of no cases that went beyond three. It had to be only a matter of time before he succumbed, possibly hours…or minutes.

“It’s okay,” Vikter assured her, but it truly wasn’t. “Where is he now?”

Pressing her other hand to her mouth, she jerked her chin toward the closed door. The sleeve of her blouse was stained with some dark substance. “It’s still him.” Her words were a little muffled. “He’s…he’s still in there. That’s how he wants to go to the gods. As himself.”

“Is there anyone else here?”

She shook her head, letting out another ragged breath.

“Have you said your goodbyes?” I asked.

The woman jerked at the sound of my voice, her eyes widening. My cloak was rather shapeless, so I imagined she was surprised to hear that I was female. A female would be the last thing anyone expected in situations like these.

“It’s you,” she whispered.

I stilled.

Vikter didn’t. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand return to the hilt of the sword.

Agnes moved suddenly, and Vikter went to unsheathe his weapon, but before he or I could react, she collapsed to her knees before me. Bowing her head, she folded her hands under her chin.

My eyes widened under the hood as I slowly looked at Vikter.

He arched a brow.

“They spoke of you,” she whispered, rocking in short, jerky movements. My heart might’ve stopped. “They say you’re the child of the gods.”

I blinked once and then twice as tiny goosebumps pimpled my skin. My parents were flesh and blood. I was definitely not a child of the gods, but I knew many people of Solis saw the Maiden as such.

“Who has said this?” Vikter asked, shooting me a look that said this was something we’d be talking about later.

Agnes lifted tear-stained cheeks, shaking her head. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Please. They didn’t speak to spread rumors or ill will. It’s just that…” She trailed off, her gaze drifting toward me. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “They say you have the gift.”

Someone had definitely been talking. A subtle shiver curled its way down my spine, but I ignored it as the woman’s pain pulsed and flared. “I’m no one of importance.”

Vikter inhaled noisily.

“Agnes. Please.” Under the cloak, I tugged off my gloves, placing them into a pocket. I slipped my hand through the opening of the heavy folds, offering it to her as I stole a quick glance at Vikter.

His eyes narrowed on me.

I was so going to hear about this later, but whatever lecture I was bound to receive would be worth it.

Agnes’s gaze dropped to my hand, and then slowly, she lifted her arm and placed her palm against mine. As she rose, I curled my fingers around her cool hand, and I thought of the golden, sparkling sand surrounding the Stroud Sea, of warmth and laughter. I saw my parents, their features no longer clear but lost to time, fuzzy and undefined. I felt the warm, damp breeze in my hair, the sand under my feet.

It was the last happy memory I had of my parents.

Agnes’s arm trembled as she took a sudden, heavy breath. “What…?” She trailed off, her mouth going lax as her shoulders lowered. The suffocating anguish retracted, collapsing into itself like a matchstick house in a windstorm. Her dampened lashes blinked rapidly, and rosy color infused her cheeks.

I let go of her hand the moment the room felt more…open and light, fresher. There was still a sharp edge of pain lingering in the shadows, but it was now manageable for her.

For me.

“I don’t—” Agnes placed a hand to her breast, giving a little shake of her head. Her brow pinched as she stared at her right hand. Almost tentatively, she returned her gaze to me. “I feel like I can breathe again.” Understanding crept across her face, quickly followed by the gleam of awe in her eyes. “The gift.”

I slipped my hand back under my cloak, conscious of the ball of tension brewing inside me.

 Agnes trembled. For a moment, I was afraid that she would drop to the floor again, but she didn’t. “Thank you. Thank you so much. My gods, thank—”

“There’s nothing you need to thank me for,” I cut her off. “Have you said your goodbyes?” I asked once more. Time was getting away from us, time we didn’t have.

Tears glimmered as she nodded, but the grief didn’t seize as it did before. What I’d done wouldn’t last. The pain would resurface. Hopefully, by then, she would be able to process it. If not, the grief would always linger, a ghost that would haunt every happy moment in her life until it became all she knew.

“We will see him now,” Vikter announced. “It would be best if you remained out here.”

Closing her eyes, Agnes nodded.

Vikter touched my arm as he turned, and I followed. My gaze landed on the settee closest to the hearth as Vikter reached the door. A floppy-headed stuffed doll with yellow hair made of yarn lay partially hidden behind the thin cushion. Tiny goosebumps broke out across my skin as unease balled in the pit of my stomach.

“Will you…?” Agnes called out. “Will you ease his passing?”

“Of course,” I said, turning back to Vikter. I placed a hand on his back and waited for him to dip his head. I kept my voice low as I said, “There is a child here.”

Vikter halted with his hand on the door, and I tilted my head toward the settee. His gaze followed. I couldn’t sense people, only their pain once I saw them. If a child was here, he or she must be hidden away, and possibly completely unaware of what was happening.

But then why hadn’t Agnes admitted to the child being here?

The unease expanded, and the worst-case scenario played out in my mind. “I will handle this. You handle that.”

Vikter hesitated, his blue eyes wary as they lifted to the door.

“I can take care of myself.” I reminded him of what he already knew. The fact that I could defend myself rested solely on his shoulders.

A heavy sigh rattled from him as he muttered, “That doesn’t mean you always have to.” He stepped back, though, facing Agnes. “Would it be too much trouble to ask for something warm to drink?”

“Oh, no. Of course, not,” Agnes answered. “I could make up some tea or coffee.”

“Do you perhaps have hot cocoa?” Vikter asked, and I smirked. While that was something a parent may have on hand and could be seen as him searching for additional evidence of a child, it was also Vikter’s greatest weakness.

“I do.” Agnes cleared her throat, and I heard the sound of a cupboard opening.

Vikter nodded at me, and I stepped forward, placing my hand on the door and pushing it open.

If I hadn’t been prepared for the too-sweet and the bitter-sour stench, it would’ve knocked me over. My gag reflex threatened to be triggered as my gaze adapted to the candlelit bedroom. I would just have to…not breathe as often.

Sounded like a solid plan.

I swept the room with a quick glance. Except for the bed, a tall wardrobe, and two rickety-looking end tables, the room was bare. More incense burned in here, but it couldn’t beat back the smell. My attention returned to the bed, to the form lying impossibly still in the center of it. Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me and started forward, slipping my right hand back into the cloak, to my right thigh. My fingers curled over the always-cold hilt of my dagger as I focused on the man. Or what was left of him.

He was young, that much I could tell, with light brown hair and broad shoulders that trembled. His skin had taken on a gray pallor, and his cheeks were sunken as if his stomach hadn’t been full in weeks. Dark shadows blossomed under eyelids that spasmed every couple of seconds. The color of his lips was more blue than pink. Taking a deep breath, I opened myself up once more.

He was in great pain, both physical and emotional. It wasn’t the same as Agnes’s, but no less potent or heavy. In here, the anguish left no room for light, and it went beyond suffocating. It choked and clawed in the knowledge that there was no way out of this.

A tremor coursed through me as I forced myself to sit beside him. Unsheathing the dagger, I kept it hidden under my cloak as I lifted my left hand and carefully pulled the sheet down. His chest was bare, and the shivers increased as the cooler air of the room reached his waxy skin. My gaze traveled down the length of his concave stomach.

I saw the wound he’d hidden from his wife.

It was above his right hip, four ragged tears in his skin. Two, side by side, an inch or so above two identical wounds.

He’d been bitten.

One who didn’t know better would think some sort of wild animal had gotten ahold of him, but this wasn’t the wound of an animal. It seeped blood and something darker, oiler. Faint, reddish-blue lines radiated out from the bite, spreading across his lower stomach and disappearing under the sheet.

A ravaged moan drew my gaze upward. His lips peeled back, revealing just how close he was to a fate worse than death. His gums bled, streaking his teeth.

Teeth that were already changing.

Two on top, two on the bottom—his canines—had already elongated. I looked to where his hand rested next to my leg. His nails had also lengthened, becoming more animalistic than mortal. Within an hour, both his teeth and nails would harden and sharpen. They’d be able to cut and chew through skin and muscle.

He would become one of them.

A Craven.

Driven by an insatiable hunger for blood, he would slaughter everyone in sight. And if anyone were to survive his attack, they would eventually become just like him.

Well, not everyone.

I hadn’t.

But he was becoming what existed outside the Rise, what lived inside the thick, unnatural mist—the foulness that the fallen Kingdom of Atlantia had cursed these lands with. Some four hundred years after the War of Two Kings had ended, they were still a plague.

The Craven were creations of the Atlantians, the product of their poisonous kiss, which acted like an infection, turning innocent men, women, and children into starved creatures whose body and mind became twisted and decayed by ceaseless hunger.

Even though the majority of Atlantians had been hunted into extinction, many still existed, and there only needed to be one Atlantian alive for there to be a dozen Craven, if not more. They weren’t completely mindless. They could be controlled, but only by the Dark One.

And this poor man had fought back and escaped, but he must have known what the bite meant. From birth, we all knew. It was a part of the kingdom’s blood-soaked history. He was cursed, and there was nothing that could be done. Had he come back to say goodbye to his wife? To a child? Had he thought he would be different? Blessed by the gods?

Chosen?

It didn’t matter.

Sighing, I replaced the sheet, leaving his upper chest bare. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I set my palm on his skin. His flesh…it felt all wrong, like cold leather. I concentrated on the beaches of Carsodonia, the capital, and the dazzling blue waters of the Stroud. I remembered the clouds, how fat and fluffy they were. How they looked like peace must feel. And I thought of the Queen’s Gardens outside of Castle Teerman, where I could simply be and not think or feel anything, where everything, including my own mind, was quiet.

I thought of the warmth those too-brief moments with Hawke had brought forth.

Marlowe’s shivers subsided, and the twitching behind his eyes slowed. The puckered skin at the corners of his eyes smoothed out.

“Marlowe?” I said, ignoring the dull pain that started to blossom behind my eyes. A headache would eventually come. One always did when I repeatedly opened myself or used my gift.

The chest under my hand rose deeply, and clumped lashes fluttered. His eyes opened, and I tensed. They were blue. Mostly. Bolts of red shot through the irises. Soon, there would be no blue left. Only the color of blood.

His dry lips parted. “Are you…are you Rhain? Have you come to take me at my end?”

He thought I was the God of the Common Man and Endings, a god of death.

“No. I’m not.” Knowing that his pain would be eased long enough for this to be completed, I lifted my left hand and did the one thing I was expressly forbidden to do. Not just by the Duke and Duchess of Masadonia, or by the Queen, but also by the gods. I did what Hawke had asked in regard to the mask, but I’d refused. I pulled down my hood and then removed the white domino mask I wore just in case my cloak slipped, revealing my face.

I figured, or hoped, that the gods would make an exception in cases like this.

His crimson-laced gaze drifted over my features, starting where wisps of burnt copper hair curled against my forehead, then the right side of my face, followed by my left. His stare lingered there, over the evidence of what a Craven’s claws could do. I wondered if he thought the same thing the Duke always did.

Such a shame.

Those three words seemed to be the Duke’s favorite. That and: you have disappointed me.

“Who are you?” he rasped out.

“My name is Penellaphe, but my brother and a few others call me Poppy.”

“Poppy?” he whispered.

I nodded. “It’s a strange nickname, but my mother used to call me that. It sort of stuck.”

Marlowe blinked slowly. “Why are…?” The corners of his mouth cracked, the new wounds seeping blood and darkness. “Why are you here?”

Forcing a smile, I tightened my grip on the hilt of the dagger and did another thing that should end with me being hauled to the Temple but hadn’t yet because this wasn’t the first time I’d revealed myself to the dying. “I am the Maiden.”

His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and he closed his eyes. A tremor coursed through him. “You’re the Chosen, ‘born in the shroud of the gods, protected even inside the womb, veiled from birth.’”

That was me.

“You…you are here for me.” His eyes opened, and I noticed the red had spread until only a hint of blue remained. “You will…give me dignity.”

I nodded.

Anyone cursed by a Craven’s bite did not die in their beds quietly and as peacefully as possible. They were not afforded that kindness or sympathy. Instead, they were generally dragged to the town square to be burned alive in front of a mass of citizens. It didn’t matter that most became cursed either protecting those who cheered their horrific demise or working to better the kingdom.

Marlowe’s gaze shifted to the closed door behind me. “She’s…she’s a good woman.”

“She said you’re a good man.”

Those eerie eyes tracked back to me. “I won’t be a—” His upper lip curled, revealing one deadly sharp tooth. “I won’t be a good man much longer.”

“No, you won’t be.”

“I…I tried to do it myself, but…”

“It’s okay.” Slowly, I pulled the dagger out from under my cloak. The glow of the nearby candle glittered off the deep red blade.

Marlowe eyed the dagger. “Bloodstone.”

Before any signs of the curse, a mortal could be killed in any number of ways, but once there were signs, only fire and bloodstone could kill the cursed. Only bloodstone or wood sharpened into a stake from the Blood Forest could kill a fully turned Craven.

“I just…I just wanted to say goodbye.” He shuddered. “That was all.”

“I understand,” I told him, even though I wished he hadn’t returned here, but I didn’t have to agree with his actions to understand them. His pain was starting to return, rising in sharp pulses and then ebbing. “Are you ready, Marlowe?”

His gaze shifted to the closed door once more, and then his eyes closed. He nodded.

Chest heavy, and unsure if it was my grief or his that weighed me down, I shifted ever so slightly. There were two ways to kill a Craven or someone cursed as long as you had a bloodstone blade or wood from a Blood Forest tree. Penetrate the heart or destroy the brain. The former wasn’t immediate. It could take minutes to bleed out, and it was painful…and messy.

Placing my left hand against his too-cold cheek, I leaned over him—

“I wasn’t…I wasn’t the only one,” he whispered.

My heart stopped. “What?”

“Ridley…he was…he was bitten, too.” A wheezing breath left him. “He wanted to say goodbye to his father. I don’t…know if he took care of himself or not.”

If this Ridley had waited until the curse began to show signs, there was no way he would’ve been able to do it. Whatever was in the blood of the Craven—of an Atlantian—triggered some sort of primal survival instinct.

Gods.

“Where does his father live?”

“Two blocks over. Third home. Blue…I think blue shutters, but Ridley…he lives in the dorms with…the others.”

Good gods, this could be bad.

“You’ve done the right thing,” I told him, wishing he’d done it sooner. “Thank you.”

Marlowe grimaced, and his eyes opened once more. There was no more blue. He was close. Seconds. “I don’t have—”

I struck as fast as the black vipers that hid in the valleys that led to the Temples. The tip of the dagger sank into the soft spot at the base of his skull. Angled frontward and between the vertebrae, the blade pierced deep, severing the brain stem.

Marlowe jerked.

That was all. He’d taken his last breath before he even knew it. Death was as instantaneous as it could be.

I eased the blade out as I rose from the bed. Marlowe’s eyes were closed. That…that was one small blessing. Agnes would not see how close he’d come to turning into a nightmare.

“May Rhain escort you to paradise,” I whispered, wiping the blood from my dagger on a small towel that had been draped over the end table. “And may you find eternal peace with those who have passed before you.”

Turning from the bed, I sheathed the dagger and then replaced my mask and lifted my hood, tugging it over my head.

Ridley.

I started for the door.

If Ridley were still alive, he had to be within minutes of turning. It was nighttime, and if he was in that dorm where others who were off duty slept….

I shuddered.

No matter how well trained they were, they were as vulnerable as anyone else while asleep. Concern for a certain guard from the Rise surfaced, and fear pierced my chest and stomach.

A massacre could be minutes away from happening.

Worse yet, the curse would spread, and I more than anyone knew how quickly it could ravage a city until nothing but blood pooled in the streets.