Page 38 of The Surrender

Something lurks beyond that monstrous nature. Something that seduces me through the demons and darkness he’s spoken of.

“You have shed enough blood.”

The words resound into the depths of my being. Like a tempest thrashing and tearing through all the jagged memories of my past. All the blood I shed and the babies I could not save. More blood will not bring my vym back.

With his hand still gripping my wrist to share in the scarlet drops trickling from my palm, I read between the lines to the beautiful threads inside them. This is not my time to sacrifice. This is the time to wait. The time to see the broken parts of me that could not break all of me.

You love the ink. Now, love your scars.

I swear the words echo in my mind. But not like a tempest this time. Instead, they whisper. A soft, still, penetrating whisper that breathes into my soul.

Surrender...

“Damn!” Zephella curses behind me. “He doesn’t breathe.”

I close my eyes. And travel deep into my mind.

Somehow, I summon each and every memory of the failures of little, cold corpses turned to blue. Of mothers crying, of fathers raging. I give them the power to hurt me. Like the walls of a hurricane bruising and battering and bleeding me. And in the eye of their storm, I stare them down and kiss each one. I thank them.

In that silent eye of eternity, something tingles in my fingertips. More potent than ever. The static courses through my skin like a twinkling of lightning.

When I open my eyes, every whorl, every pattern, every speck of ink upon my skin dances in beautiful, chaotic whorls. My chest aches because my heart has spun into my throat. I open my mouth to gasp but don’t get the chance.

My vym sings in my veins! For the first time in all my years, it doesn’t simply flow beyond my skin. It gushes. Every thread of vulnerability surges with it—the power and beauty of the vulnerability in my scars.

Shining gray ribbons swell and burst from my bloodied hands, sealing the wounds on their way out of my body. As those ribbons arrow toward one source, I arch my back from the overwhelming force.

The baby.

They lock onto his little corpse slumbering in his mother’s arms. Pour forth into him. The first of many convulsions rip through me, and I know I’d collapse if Kyan were not anchoring me. His heartbeat pounds against my spine, his heat sealed to my back as I seize with every shimmering strip of vym that escapes from me.

One strip plunges down the baby’s lifeless throat and nostrils and pulls blood and fluid from each opening. Awed, I part my lips, not daring to take a breath. My vision blurs. But it doesn’t matter. Not when the baby twitches. Not when his chest rises. Oh, gods! Not when he cries! A glorious sound of full, ear-splitting cries from strong, pumping lungs.

Vym fleeting, fading to a whisper now that its labor is done, I fall against Kyan. The fatigue is not unknown, but it’s more intense than ever. My vision fades. Darkness pulses on the barest edges of my mind.

A howling blare of bells discharges a fresh round of adrenaline into me. Jerks me from the subconscious. Loud shouts of alarm resonate beyond the walls.

Kyan hardens at my back. My breath hitches as his wings tighten and curve around me, limiting my vision. But it’s enough to see the strong brown-winged father raising Nyrielle and her baby into his arms and moving toward a large hollow on the side of the room.

Zephella hisses and practically leaps for me, demanding Sylie. Trembling limbs moving as fast as possible, I give her back the sling with the sleeping baby.

The Kings plunge through the downstairs door at the same time that the little family closes the heavy oak doors to the hollow, sealing them inside. Kyan stiffens but gathers me into his arms. I cling to him, my fingers practically clawing.

Confusion mixed with fear pricks the back of my neck as he charges out of the upstairs bedroom and into the main hallway that opens to a view of the main area.

“Roc attack!” Drago bellows from the first floor, shaking the very foundations of the treehouse.

The word is sharp and piercing. I can’t begin to fathom what it means. But when Kyan growls and pumps his wings to launch us clear over the balcony to land on the floor while all his muscles bulge, I know it’s nothing good.

“Merikh,” he commands in a quiet but deep voice while handing me to his partner, “you’re the fastest. Get her back to the Court of Storms.”

One moment, the vampire’s pupils are black as pinpricks. In the next, terror knifes through me at the sight of those pupils dilating to a bloated, flushing red. A guttural growl lashes from his throat.

“Blood on her skin,” he snarls.

My chest tightens from the declaration. It’s true. Despite how my vym healed the wounds, fresh blood still lingers, drying by the second.

Kyan doesn’t stop when I grapple with him as he transfers me to the vampire. Instead, he coils one firm hand around my throat, leans in, and whispers the spine-chilling words, “Surrender, Quinny. Do not fight it. Do not fight him. Mayce...” he signals the Fae king and gestures to the outside. “Get as many of the villagers inside as you can. Dispel their fears. Drago!”

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