The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

by Carissa Broadbent

Long ago, I told you a tale of a chosen girl who fell to the darkness. Now I will tell you the tale of a boy who was born within it.

You are a king, she would say. Survive long enough to take your crown.

The boy did not want glory. He did not want a crown. He wanted freedom.

And yet, oh, how the shadows shift upon the past depending on the light of the present.

This is the tale of how a fallen one ascends. He does it in countless cascading decisions, over years, over centuries. He does it with the desperation of a starving soul willing to sacrifice anything, everything, for a single chance at redemption.

How could my chest hurt so much if my heart was no longer beating? I pressed my hand to it like a tourniquet, a futile attempt to quell the bleeding. But I could feel a little solid thread somewhere in that ache. A little sharp stab of pain that reminded me of the spell Asar had drawn between us, once—the spell that had allowed me to pull him from the ritual circle. I clung to that thread of familiarity. Pain that felt so alive.

Her eyes, though—her eyes had been the same, honey brown and gold and amber.

Whore was one thing. But to claim that the woman who had literally changed the course of the divine world, who had saved countless lives and touched countless souls, would ever be forgotten . . . Never. Mische Iliae would be remembered by the bones of time itself, and I knew it because I would write her story there with my blood if I had to.

She was not done with this world. Only the ignorant believed that death was an end. It certainly would not be for her.

Legends said that occasionally, Shiket had been known to gift one of these blades to a mortal follower, with the considerable caveat that the weapon would be destined to one day end them. My gaze fell immediately to the top left one, just above her shoulder. A massive white broadsword, glowing with ethereal light. The Blade of Retribution. The sword that represented a rightful death granted in a rightful punishment. And, in a repulsive irony, the sword she had used to kill Mische.

“Forgive our accommodations, Asar Voldari, King of the House of Shadow, Warden of the Descent, and descendant of Alarus.” Her voice plucked through my titles with detached curiosity, as if rummaging for something useful. “Understand that we must work with what we have. I could not intervene in freeing you from your cell. You needed to come here of your own accord.” She turned to the three figures before me. “Well done, my soldiers.”

How convenient your instincts are, a familiar, cruel voice whispered in the back of my mind. Your woman is still out there. Your dog is still out there. Is that really what you sense, or is it just denial? But those harsh words were met with softer ones—Mische, saying, We all need faith, Asar.

Between her fingers, the threads hovered—mine the black of vampire blood, Mische’s the gold of sunset, tangled in mid-air. Her six wings spread, the three on the left showing me myself upon the throne of the House of Shadow, ruling over the Shadowborn army, building an empire from eternal night. The three on the right, showing me death, destruction, and Mische. It wasn’t even a choice. “Take me to her,” I said.

Acaeja smiled as she straightened. Her wings went dark as fate shifted. “Billions of threads,” she murmured, “and not a single one where you say no.” And then she drew the threads tight, and the world rearranged.

Acaeja’s smile gleamed in the trembling firelight. Strange, I thought, that none of the paintings or tapestries had ever depicted that her teeth were sharp as those of vampires.

My heart leapt. “Luce!”

Good dog!!

“Luce, you are the best best best girl.”

“If? Girl, there is no if. You will make it back to the land of the living. You will finish what you began. You will help your lover ascend, and you will fix the underworld before it collapses and takes my kingdom with it. There is no if.”

“There is no map for the path we must walk in times like this,” Vincent said. “But we must seize the chances that are given to us.

“You chose this battle. You chose it when you took your first steps into Morthryn, and you choose it again now. You set out to change the world. You set out to create a god. So do it. This is the time for conquering, Mische Iliae. Go.” There was no way out but through.

In my world, every heartbeat pushed me to her. I only had to let it take me there.

I had come to love the underworld. Even in the imperfection of the decay I couldn’t fight, I admired the beauty of its construction. A path to usher souls from one existence to the next, empathetic and kind in its orderly efficiency. I’d spent years leaning over broken gates and decaying spells, and every one of those imperfections had hurt a little to witness.

A hand folded around mine—long fingers, raised scars, strong and steadfast as a vow fulfilled. And all I could do was cling to that grip, a single lifeline of faith, as I flung myself into the open arms of the abyss.

One night, he saw a starving stray dog stalk through the reeds. She was black, and long-legged, her body thin and bony. He could feel her hunger so acutely. It reminded him of his own. That night, the boy offered the dog some food. The dog refused to take it until he had left, but the next night, he excitedly checked to see that it was gone. He came to visit the creature the next night, and the next. She was skittish and wary. For weeks, she refused his offering until he was gone. It took months before she would eat in front of him, and months more before she would take meat from his hand.

“I do understand. It does not matter.”

“Mische Iliae, Dawndrinker or Shadowborn, living or dead, I will never let you go.”

My mouth found hers immediately, like a compass seeking north.

Over her shoulder, the open door to my bedchamber taunted me with just how easy it could be in another world to carry her to that bed, slide her thighs open, and worship there for the next few hours, days, or weeks. Show her just how grateful I was to have her back in the way my words failed to.

“It is a bridge to endless possibilities. It is the gate to the kingdom of the dead. It is a refuge for those who have nothing else. And perhaps, my disgraced prince, it can be a refuge for you, too, if you allow it to be.”

Rules couldn’t protect us if they were now being rewritten.

“I don’t need a sword anyway. I can use my—” She held out her hands and wiggled her fingers in what I could only imagine was a comically exaggerated pantomime of either a hunting wolf or a very handsy drunk. “Pray tell, what is that supposed to be?” “My death touch,” she said, as if it were obvious.

Vincent looked frustrated. “You carry a piece of the god of death in you. And your lover has more power than he has even begun to understand. Use it.” He leaned closer. “Stop thinking like an acolyte and start thinking like a vampire.”

And a voice, quiet and booming at once, said, “Get your hands off my wife.”

!!!!!!!!!!

“You underestimated me, Egrette.” I spoke softly, and the words felt far away. Yet they vibrated in my bones. “Once I had thought you were the wiser one in the family. And yet, you drag me out here and you threaten what’s mine. As if she’s just an object to be used for your purposes.” Saying it aloud made my rage nearly unbearable. I was speaking to Malach, Raoul, Shiket, Nyaxia, Atroxus. So many unforgivable injustices.

“You are too intelligent for us to be having this conversation right now. You know what my priority is. You know it because you just used it against me.”

“Was the wedding nice?” A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It was elegant and tasteful.”

LOL

The Melume was a legendary event in the House of Shadow, much like the Kejari was in the House of Night—though far less bloody. The House of Shadow was the oldest of the vampire kingdoms, having been constructed from the remnants of Alarus’s territory. This, many believed, gave the House of Shadow a unique link to the past. On the Night of the Melume, the boundary between the past and the present thinned. It created a natural phenomenon that even great poets struggled to describe, in which the ghosts of the past walked among the living.

“So protective. That heart of yours, Asar, will be your downfall. You crave love like an animal craves meat.

“Your woman is lovely,” he murmured. “You’ll ruin her.” Probably, I thought.

Her back arched, a mewling gasp slipping between her lips. I loved this about Mische—she reacted so intensely to everything, every joy or sorrow, every pain or delight. During sex, her pleasure radiated from her every expression and movement and muscle, mapping my path to tread. The first time I’d witnessed it, with my mouth on her throat and her hand between her legs, I thought I would die to feel it again.

I ground against her, teeth and lips and tongue, my hands holding her thighs firm as she squirmed. With her next moan, fractured with want, I smiled against her in satisfaction.

She returned her hands to the ladder rung, and I had to pause to admire the way she looked—her body stretched out, so impossibly beautiful even beneath that sheet that revealed every swell or dip of her flesh. “Push against the ladder,” I said. “And scream for me.” And then I made her come.

I buried my face between her thighs, tongue and teeth working at her bud, while my thumb slid down to knead at the wet slick of her entrance, and goddess help me, I wanted nothing, nothing, nothing more in my entire pathetic life than I wanted to slide into her.

We did, eventually, make our way back to the bedchamber, where Mische quickly sprawled out on the bed like some kind of amorphous slime fungus, utterly spent.

But the Sentinels were methodical machines of death. Their swords, blessed with the divinity of the White Pantheon, burned vampire flesh at even the slightest touch. Ash scattered the floor, creating a gummy paste with the pools of blood.

Eventually, she spoke. “Raihn won’t say it, but it needs to be said, so I will.” She dug the tip of her blade into the table and leaned across it. “You’re welcome here as long as Mische says you should be. But let’s be clear. If you ever hurt her, in any sense, I will peel your skin off and make you eat it.”

I choked out, “I think I know this one.” “All my favorite notes. The easiest ones to play. You were the one who asked me to think about the future, Dawndrinker.” Sap.

“Hold it like this.” I demonstrated. “And if they come for you, you go for the heart.” I pressed my hand to my sternum. “Right here. Really, really hard.” Gods, the poor thing was so afraid she could barely think. But she swallowed hard and attempted to adjust her grip. “Like this?” It was still bad. “Good,” I lied.

Strange, that so often, the souls of the dead appeared in darkness. But around her, they were light, clinging to her like licks of flame to a candle.

His grip was so tight around her hand that they trembled together. He could feel every raised piece of scar tissue, every muscle, every bone. He knew them because he’d already memorized them all.