Page 90 of The Lost Prince
“What’s this then?” he asked, a bit of wonder in his voice.
A small flicker of uncertainty hit me, the dagger wavering in my hand as he stared at the golden lines weaving their way through my skin, completely transfixed. He wouldn’t see my attack coming. He wouldn’t resist. Why would he? I was just another boy he grew up with, not a threat. He wasn’t a Noble. He wasn’t the queen.
Could I kill him to save the knowledge of this tunnel?
I struck before I could second guess myself.
He didn’t fight back despite his training as a Fireguard. How could he? I was a bookish freak; I wasn’t a threat to him. My knife went into his neck as easily as though it were warm butter, his blood flowing down onto my hands just as hotly.
His expression was never afraid; it only shifted from awe at the bloodmagick dancing over my skin to slight confusion as his life’s blood spurted out between my fingers.
The Fireguard sagged to the ground and died. It was easy … all too easy. My blood magick flared brighter even though I was oddly calm. It pushed at me beneath my veins. It egged me on.
My left leg flared painfully as a reminder of past mistakes, and I nearly crumpled. Stubbornly, I shifted my weight to my other leg.
What? What is it?I asked the magick swirling around me.
We need more …it begged.
More.More.
Something lingered about the Fireguard’s body; something old and yet tangible. It made my blood sing in tandem.
Reach out. Take it. Use it.
There was only so far I’d gone with blood magick, doing rituals on myself and using only my blood. I’d read everything that was available in the library, and none of them delved beyond magick that used the blood of others. However, I could make inferences.
Magick, and especially bloodmagick, was based on intent and emotion. Bloodmagick performed on me was calm and controlled. The power involved reflected that. What if a high amount of emotion was involved … such as agony?
What if someoneelsewas involved, experiencing intense bouts of emotion?
This man was a problem. He could bring down Shava and I.
I wouldn’t have it.
The Fireguard’s blood mingled with the cut on my forearm, and I moved without thinking. Crouching over his body, I slammed the knife deep into his chest. He jerked and shuddered, a fractured moan splitting his lips.
Whoops, not so dead.
The sharp tang of whateverthingthat coated my veins spiked deliciously. I dug the blade in, hearing it scrape against his rib cage. I went horizontal. Then vertical. Unseeing anything but my prize, I pushed back the gore and viscera and stared down at his weakly beating heart.
“D-don’t.”
Blood spurted from his lips, his fingers weakly grasping at himself.
Too little. Too late.
I reached down and touched it.
Thick, hot magick rushed through me, potent as poison and as titillating as Clover’s breasts. It was slimy, and warm, and so, so full of purpose and magick and life—
“He went this way, didn’t he? He’s due back.”
The spell broke, and before I could blink, the magick was gone, sucked out of existence and into the void like it’d never been there to begin with. I drew back, and the Fireguard’s body hit the dirt hard, eyes unseeing and cold.
Dead.
The realization of the sticky situation I’d just put myself in hit me full force.
