Page 137 of Of Spindles and Nightfall
Her uncle lunged at her again, but Aryana had learned from the best. She twisted away just in time, using the momentum to roll and grab her fallen blade from the floor. Fueled by fury and determination, she shot to her feet. She parried his next blow with a loud clash of steel and sent a swift kick to his abdomen, sending him backward into the desk. She sprang after him and rammed her blade through his stomach with such force, it slammed into the wood beneath, pinning him there. Then leapt upward, grasping his wrist and sinking her teeth into his hand and ripping the sword from his grasp.
She backed up, wiping the blood from her chin, and stared at her uncle.
He watched her, pain and rage in his gaze. “That’s it? You have me at your mercy and in the end, you don’t have the guts to do what needs to be done. This is why you are not fit for the throne. Why you’ve never deserved it. You’re weak.”
“I’d rather be weak than rule like you. Besides, vengeance isn’t mine to take.”
She clenched her teeth against the urgency still coming through the Bloodbond. She had to finish this. Aryana released the sword and stepped back.
A shadow graced the doorway of her father’s study. “Good evening, Fallor,” her mother said.
Her uncle’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear breaking through. “My wife. My love. Help me.”
“Help you?” she echoed, stepping forward, a stake clenched in her hands. “Like you helped my husband—by murdering him? Or helped my daughter—by nearly killing her? Was it helpful when you threatened her life to control me, forcing me to obey your every twisted whim?” Her voice trembled with fury as she stepped closer, steady and inevitable, resembling death itself. “For years, I bowed to you. Submitted. Watched you torment Aryana, convinced I was protecting her, while you shattered the last piece of him I had left. But tonight, that ends.”
She took a final step forward, lifting her arms above her head, and rammed the stake into his chest.
Fallor gasped out loud, before expelling out one final breath, his eyes growing empty, slowly faded into nothing.
Aryana’s mother leaned closer and murmured in his ear. “Tonight I am free.” And then she turned and bit his neck, drawing his blood.
Securing her victory.
“Mother,” Aryana said, stepping close. Her mother drew back and wiped the crimson on her lips before drawing Aryana into one more embrace.
Tonight, they were both free.
But the dread hadn’t released Aryana. The icy insistence of her Bloodbond with Zarathos had her withdrawing and rushing over to the alcove, retrieving the Neutrolisis from her pouch.
“I must hurry. He’s in danger. I can feel it.” Her voice shook as she tried to compose herself.
“The demon arch king?” her mother asked.
“Yes.” Aryana lifted the potion to the case and poured it down the glass. The small hum of energy omitting from the glass went dark. She sighed. It had worked. She reached down, pried off the cover, and extracted the vampire scepter.
“Are you actually returning to him?” inquired her mother.
“I have to. We have a bargain. If I break it, I’ll die.” She needed to get back to him. The sooner the better.
“But that’s not really why you’re returning.”
Aryana suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her hands flew to her throat as she dropped to her knees.
Panic clawed at her. She was a vampire—choking was rare—yet her chest burned, screaming for breath that wouldn’t come.
Her mother rushed to her side, eyes wide with fear. “What’s happening?”
Aryana tried to speak, but only managed a strangled gasp before collapsing forward onto the cold tile floor.
Zarathos.
He was dying.
She was too late—too late to save him, too late to save herself.
Darkness pressed in. Agony flared in her chest and throat.
No.
