Page 61 of Heart of Night
He leaves it at that, not elaborating, but it’s not difficult to put two and two together even when my face is still hurting like Eroth himself struck me with his wrath.
“You are intending to use him as a bargaining chip,” I conclude with all the horror my body is capable of.
On the table across the room, Myron shakes his head an inch, his eyes hard as if steeling himself against the truth Ephegos shared with us.
Katrijanov flashes a cruel grin from behind Myron. “A bargaining chip and a tool to keep our real bargaining chip in line.”
“Clio.” It’s a whisper, but the Crows in the room pick it up while Katrijanov reads it from my mouth.
“I assume the King of Askarea will be willing to negotiate faster when he learns who we hold captive, and said captive will not set a toe out of line when we keep her mate for torture.” Ephegos tilts his head, bird-like mouth opening as the rough hiss of his Crow voice escapes. “Just like you won’t try anything foolish, Ayna, because you know I could end your mate at any moment. I could strap him to this very table.” With a few slow strides, he crosses the room until he stands behind the metal Myron is strapped to, and traces a claw along his prisoner’s muscled arm. A thin, crimson line follows in its wake, but smart as he is, Myron isn’t moving for the same reason I didn’t try to wriggle out of my bonds while the syringe had been hovering over my arm—avoiding worse damage—but the rapid rising and falling of his chest is proof of the agony he’s so expertly hiding behind the mask of his unreadable face. Unreadable, except for those eyes locking on mine, filled with fear not for him, but for me.
“You will marry Erina, Ayna. You will bear his children—yes, multiple. A king can never have enough heirs, just in case—and then you’ll live out your days at his side, knowing that one wrong word is enough to put your mate on this very table and have him carved open. Over. And over. Again.” He enunciates each word. “The new serum allows for the fast fae healing and the vivid perception of all sensations—including pain.” His features shift back to his human face, and the cruel smile turns even more pronounced as he exchanges a look with Katrijanov, who’s drawn his blade once more, setting it to Myron’s shoulder and stabbing him without warning.
The searing pain in my tattoo tears a scream from my throat, and I could swear Herinor takes a step forward, hands lifted as if he’s ready to pull me off the table and carry me away, but he lowers them and turns back into a statue. The room blurs as tears shoot to my eyes while the rest of the room remains silent.
Why isn’t Myron screaming? Why isn’t he fighting?
The panic his silence evokes makes me manage a deep breath, allowing me to pack away the pain for a heartbeat or two, just long enough to see Myron lie still on his table, eyes shuttering as he fights a toneless war against the agony. No tears run down the side of his face where his blood is pooling under his hair, dripping over the edge of the table.
They won’t let him bleed out. They won’t. They need him alive in order to control me.
Ire replaces the despair constricting my chest, bursting through my veins like molten steel—no, like water, boiling, raging waves ready to eat up the world.
My Crow. They hurt my Crow. And they will all die for it.
What was a cacophony of images and sounds before has turned into a crystal clear scene, no blurriness, no haze. The world is a precise array of colors and textures, of tastes and scents, of emotions and … wrath. Endless wrath.
Whatever Ephegos injected me with, it lifted the damper on a part of me I hadn’t been aware of. What did he say? Welcome to the world of fae.
Just as I’d felt my magic when Vala gifted it, I feel my entire body light up with a new sort of strength. It’s not magic, that’s still fast asleep, but something different. Something more. I’m no longer human.
The sensation prickles across my skin like a dark melody, rushing along my bones like an echo of purple-glazed night. My fingers tingle, ache, break. One by one, they crack, and I cry out—but not in pain but in delight at what I realize is happening.
One after the other, my fingernails expand, lengthening in both directions, eating up my bones, my skin as they turn into talons, my hands into claws, my arms shrinking and shrinking as my body implodes into an unfamiliar form. A small, powerful form with beating wings and shiny black feathers.
I’m out of my shackles, and the world has turned into a kaleidoscope of possibilities as I flutter off my table right at Ephegos’s face.
Thirty
Myron
I need to control my shallow breathing in order to slow my heart rate long enough to heal the deep hole Katrijanov pierced into my shoulder. The pain is secondary. It’s nothing compared to the terror of Ayna’s screams as our bond transfers part of my suffering to her. What a cruel mercy Vala chose for me. Gifted me a mate to lift my curse just to let me suffer as my agony becomes hers.
“I will never get enough of this,” Ephegos whispers at me, his breath brushing my hair.
Monster. He’s a worse monster than all those Crows who caused the curse. He betrayed all his values for a meek vendetta.
“Torturing us won’t bring her back,” I utter as Ayna’s screams turn hoarse.
I need to get my wounds to heal faster, damn it, so I spare her the agony.
“It won’t bring Sariell back, you’re right. But it’s justice to watch you writhe in pain, Myron. It’s justice to watch Ayna’s will being sucked out of her as she becomes my puppet. It’s justice to take your crown and your people and reestablish the Crow Kingdom.”
I don’t bother pointing out that I’m not writhing. I’m lying as still as the pain will allow so I can focus all my energy on healing so I can free Ayna of her agony.
“There is no Crow Kingdom left,” I hiss through clenched teeth, praying to Shaelak that Ayna’s screams sound worse than what she feels. They are so rough now I’m led to believe her voice will fail any moment. “And nowhere to establish a court of monsters.” Because that’s what the Crow Court would become under his rule.
“I’m ready to test my luck, Myron. Are you?”