Page 72 of Heirs of the Cursed

“And yet you cover it up. If you want to earn my trust, you’ll show me your face right now,” Darcia said firmly.

His response reached her ears in a drowned out way.

When she was about to ask him what he had just said, a sudden pain in her chest made Darcia brace her feet firmly on the floor. Dizziness washed over her as every part of her body began to tremble erratically. She repressed the need to raise her hand toward her throat at the lack of the air in her lungs, and the threads of her mind began to churn aggressively, tugging at her to guide her forward.

Toward Alasdair.

No, she commanded herself.

She couldn’t let her powers hurt anyone else. She couldn’t allow herself to lose control . . . Darcia clenched her hands into fists until her chest began to shrink.

“You need to leave right now,” Darcia told him, pushing him toward the window.

“Why?” he asked.

Another painful twinge.

Her breathing became erratic.

“Darcia,” Alasdair called to her, and the ground seemed to wobble beneath her feet.

Trapped like a child in a cage of her own magic, she felt unable to handle it, subjected to it. Darcia wasn’t going to let it consume her, she wasn’t going to let herself loose. She couldn’t.

“Please, leave,” she implored him. “Please . . .”

Yet Alasdair kept his gaze on her boreal eyes, trying to figure out what was happening and determined to stay until she was all right. She shook her head, urging him to leave with her shaking hands.

Thief, criminal, heartless man . . .

He was still a dryad.

Aperson.

Even if no one mourned his death, Darcia would remember his name forever, and she’d never be able to forgive herself for her magic’s outburst.

At the silent plea written on her face, Alasdair jumped out the window before her power slipped through her fingers and disappeared into the night.

Darcia closed her eyes to let herself fall into the darkness that was trying to swallow her. Unsettling, intimidating . . . And only when she surrendered, did the throbbing of her dark magic soothe within her. Claiming her, and reminding her that, despite having learnt to use her magic for beautiful circus tricks, it was still not hers to master.

22

Bellmare

Naithea awoke to the warm, sweet rays of sunlight streaming through the window.

Memories of the night before rushed back to her as she lifted her face from the pillow, where the wrinkles of the sheets had etched themselves into her cheek. Despite the unfolding events, she hadn’t slept so peacefully and securely in years.

Jehanne slept beside her. Over the wound on her brow, like the one on her stomach and collarbones, was a thick and orange mixture that Naithea didn’t remember putting on. But where it was beginning to dry, it revealed a thin crust and greenish bruises that were slowly fading.

She rolled over on her back in search of the Commander of Death and was relieved to find the chair empty. Naithea had wanted Ward to kiss her, to push away all the insecurities she had about him and satisfy that dark need that left her breathless.

Because once he did, everything could go back to normal.

On the bedside table was a glass vial of ointment for Jehanne’s wounds, a heavy bag containing over sixty gold vramnias, and an unusual object: a curved-bladed dagger. Naithea picked it up and twirled it in her fingers. The blade was part of a beautiful hilt, carved in the shape of a tiger and inlaid with gold and silver.

She noticed the long phrase in saagrati, ancient runes that told the story of a shadow warrior and a powerful seer of lightning.

“Mhm . . .” her best friend protested, and Naithea sat up again.

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