Page 55 of The Curse and the Silver Rose

Once she left the tower, she sprinted down the hallways. Her fear was so great that she no longer felt fatigue nor the blazing of her lungs. As she passed galleries and foyers, she searched wildly for Davron but she could not see or hear him. She dared not yell out, lest she alert other raiders to her whereabouts.

A horrible yet inevitable thought crossed her mind. Davron might already be dead. As strong as he was, he was only one man and he was unarmed and attacked by surprise.

Before Amelie rounded a corner, she chanced a look over her shoulder. The man pursued her, bleeding as he ran. His injuries, though unsightly, did not seem to slow him down. Perhaps, like Amelie, he was propelled now by pure instinct, feeling no discomfort or pain.

At last, she arrived in the corridor to Davron’s chambers. Blessedly, no one stood between her and his doorway. She reached the final strait, running with all her might.

At his door she nearly fell over from stopping so fast, flinging out her hand and grabbing the door frame. She swung herself into his room and ran for Davron’s bed. The bed covers were still messy and unmade from that morning.

The silver rose was not visible, but she leaped onto the bed and searched through the emerald sheets and countless pillows, her panic mounting. The rose wasn’t there. She picked up the quilt and shook it, but nothing metallic clunked from it.

Amelie realized the rose likely fell onto the floor beneath the bedhead last night. With the intensity of their lovemaking, it would not have stayed under the pillow. The silver rose was the perfect weight and size to simply bounce off the mattress unnoticed. She scurried to the top of the bed and tried to reach into the gap between the bedhead and mattress, but it was too narrow. Her fingertips grasped uselessly at nothing.

“Oi!”

Amelie turned around in fright. The raider entered the room, his chest heaving. As he locked eyes on Amelie, alone and defenseless on the bed, his lips twisted into a malevolent smile. He closed the door behind him, taking obvious care not to slam it, which made her fear reach fever pitch. The raider did not mean to be disturbed.

He approached the bed with a purposeful prowl, reaching for the handle of his knife.

“I knew I’d catch ye,” he said, swiping at the wound on his torso. The shard was gone, which meant he’d yanked it out. “I’m gonna turn you out, girlie. On the beast’s bed too, eh? That is, how do ye say, poetic, ain’t it?”

Amelie was breathless with distress. Despite her ballooning terror, she made a silent promise to herself. She would not cry out, no matter what he did to her. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“Come on,” he said as he reached the side of the bed. “Lift ye skirt.”

As he climbed onto the mattress on all fours like an animal, she slipped her hands under the pillows behind her, trying to find the silver rose.

The raider lashed out and clamped his hand on her foot like a striking snake. She tried to kick him, but he pinned both of her ankles to the mattress with his knees, crushing them. She cringed in pain, determinedly not speaking. There were no words to say to a man like this. There was only death. His, or hers.

He leaned in closer, grinning like a jester. His breath stunk like death and decay. Bile rose in Amelie’s throat and she fought to suppress it.

“Ah, I nearly forgot. I’m supposed to give ye a message before I kill ye.” He looked into her eyes. “Levissina sends you her love.”

Hearing those words did something to Amelie. They made everything somehow clearer, and horribly straightforward. She knew she was about to die. Although she had fought and fled as hard as she could, she was no match for a vengeful sorceress and a pack of cruel, murderous raiders.

A series of memories flashed through Amelie’s mind like she was rapidly flicking through the pages of a book.

She saw Colette laughing in the sunny courtyard. Raphael and Marcel teasing Amelie at the wooden table in the kitchen, her father teaching her to ride a horse, her mother stroking her forehead at bedtime and reading her stories she didn’t yet understand. Stories about love.

And Davron. She thought of Davron. His smile and voice and the feeling of his heart beating against the palm of her hand. She thought of his tenderness and roughness and how he made her feel like she was the most precious thing in the world. She thought of him, and she felt peace. She would try to hold onto that feeling for as long as possible. For as long as the physical pain would allow.

While crouching over her, the raider jerked up the hem of her dress, then busied himself with the buckle of his pants. Amelie made one last searching sweep under the pillow with her hand. This time, her fingers closed around the cold metallic stem of the rose, as if by magic.

She concentrated on keeping her expression impassive. If she gave away her discovery before she could use the rose, death was certain.

With her thumb, she pushed off the bud. Immediately, she withdrew her hand from under the pillow, the vibrant blue blade materializing before her. The eerily beautiful Sirensong filled the room, sending a surge of power and unexpected glee through Amelie. The raider recoiled, grimacing and pressing his hands over his ears.

Without a moment of hesitation, Amelie drove the blade into his stomach. The sword plowed into him with such ease it shocked her.

She held the blade steady in his stomach while the Sirensong grew louder and more intense. The blade glowed brighter—so bright it almost hurt to gaze upon. Amelie watched, entranced, as the raider’s skin rippled with unnatural masses of dark blue veins. His flesh bubbled and the whites of his eyes turned black.

His body was frozen in place, his limbs and torso locked. He started to choke while staring blindly at the spot over Amelie’s head. The choking turned to sputtering. Clear water spilled from his wide distorted mouth.

A torrent of water flowed out, drenching his front. It started pouring from his ears and nostrils and eyes, too. He made a panicked gurgling sound, wrenching his head back and forth in panic, but otherwise unable to move. His lips turned a pale, deathly blue.

The Sirensong reached new heights and Amelie thought she heard delighted, ethereal female laughter. A fresh surge of power traveled from the blade into her wrist. She was determined not to release her grip until the man was dead.

An instant later, the raider disappeared, clothes and all, exploding in a burst of water. Some of it splashed on Amelie’s face and she tasted salt. The Sirenstone had turned the man into seawater.

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