Dark Heir (Dark Rise, #2)

by C.S. Pacat

“The only place the Dark King couldn’t conquer,” said James, “and now he could walk right in.” Will was unable to stop another sideways look at James.

You can’t really mean to take me back there.

You said you’d follow me, didn’t you? James had smiled with invidious amusement. Your little friends aren’t going to like it.

“You stopped a Shadow King?” For all his power, this had truly shocked James. “How?” “The same way I’ll stop you if you step out of line.”

“You mean, ‘Get out’?” inquired James politely, his lips drawing back. “No. We’re in this together,” Will said, as James’s eyes flashed in surprise. “All of us.”

“I know the way,” said James, and simply strolled past her. It was galling. He showed no humility or remorse. He ought to be behaving like a penitent, thought Violet. He ought to be in chains, the kind that dragged and clanked. Or better yet, the obsidian manacles that would block his power. He hadn’t liked that at all, last time. Instead he looked as if he was the one barely tolerating her.

James’s unlikable blue eyes gleamed. She felt suddenly chilled by all he might know. He had been part of the inner circle. There were even whispers that he had been Simon’s lover, though James had always denied it. To have been so close to Simon and then to have betrayed him . . . “Your surrogate father,” said Cyprian, bitterly. “That’s right,” James said evenly. “Then you should have no problem helping us,” said Cyprian. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Kill fathers?” “And brothers.” James gave an intentionally cold smile.

“My hero,”

“That was for a friend of mine,” said Violet. “His name was Justice.”

Unnervingly, as she watched, the cut began to mend, and the bruise that had begun to spread receded. It would soon be as if she’d never hit him: violence without evidence.

“The Dark King.” His voice was easy. “What would you do if he did return?” “I’d kill him.” She said it fiercely, instantly. “Before he could hurt our world. All of us would.”

Sarcean, I’m going to defeat you. Whatever your plans are in the Valnerina, I’m going to stop them. Like I stopped Simon. Like I’m going to stop Sinclair. I will give you no foothold in this world, or in me. No one will ever even know you came back. Your attempt to rule ends here.

He should say no. He looked at James, with his shirt loosened, his glinting lashes at half mast, and the candlelight turning all his edges golden. He should keep James at arm’s length, as he had on the ride here. Adopt the professionalism of a leader, deploying James’s powers where they were needed. Be there for him as a friend, a trustworthy companion. He should say no.

“No, I was a goody two-shoes,” said James, who looked like a golden temptation to sin.

He still had that pure taste in his mouth as he spoke casually. “Did they try to kill you right away?” “They’re Stewards,” said James. “They kill themselves, you think they’d be lenient with anyone else?”

James still had the flask in his long fingers, and now he lifted it, the salute ironic. “Don’t give your loyalty to a killer.” “No,” said Will.

“You’re strong enough to do it alone,” said Will. He knew that, deep in his bones. And alongside that, a new quality to his pulse. A proprietary thrum. Prove it. Prove yourself. Show me.

“Let’s not try that again in a hurry.” James’s usual drawl was blurred.

“Then we try again,” said Cyprian. “There are two gates left.” “Oh, certainly,” said James. “Just point me at them.” Blond tendrils streamed water. He could barely lift his head, but his lip curled effectively.

That felt too close to the secret part of him that had felt pleased to see James do as he ordered. That felt pleased that James was here, in a place he didn’t want to be, only for Will’s sake. It made Will want to keep him safe, give him warmth and approval, tell him he’d done well. “You drained yourself.” For me.

jesus will

“Will, what are you doing with him?” She spoke in a low voice, glancing back at James sprawled out by the fire. “He can help us,” said Will. “He has helped us. He opened that gate.” “I know why he’s here. I meant why are you fluffing his pillow?” “I’m,” said Will, “not fluffing his—” “He’s the Betrayer. You don’t need to give him a hot drink and a blanket.”

James looked like a consumptive heroine from a painting, the kind that dies beautifully.

“You can’t fight them. This isn’t an ancient battle. They’ll have guns,” said James, “and they will shoot you with them.”

“What a pity you have two saviors and they’re both useless.” James gave a thin smile as he gestured to Will and Elizabeth.

Will wheeled his huge black horse, like a dark avenging angel, and shouted, “James, aragas!” James let out a wrenching cry, as if something inside him was tearing, and a visible surge of power arced from him into the carved sun.

“And who are you?” “I’m James St. Clair.” James could summon an astonishing amount of arrogance for someone who was about to fall over.

Will felt James’s hand come to rest on the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair, a possessive gesture unmistakable in its meaning. “This one stays with me.”

The instant the door closed, James collapsed. Will, ready for it, caught his weight and maneuvered him over to the bed.

“I told you I’d get us inside,” said James. “And you did,” said Will.

You did it, he wanted to say to him. For me. I’m grateful. There was a deeper part of him that was pleased in ways that he shouldn’t be at how far James had pushed himself. For me, it also whispered. You drained yourself. You gave me everything you had.

James was trying to reassure him—half-dead, and still trying to prove himself. Had the Dark King ever seen him like this? Did James even know he was doing it?

“Shy?” said James. Will put a hand on the back of the long seat. “I’ll sleep here.” “He won’t kill you just for lying down next to me,” said James. “Who won’t?” “You know who,” said James. “My jealous master.”

“I think he might very well kill someone for that.” The words just came out.

Then, because James had made it a challenge, Will laid himself down next to James on the bed. He felt James shift, heard his sharp intake of air. Will said, “Don’t make me move back to the long seat, I’m comfortable.” James’s voice was breathless with shocked wonderment. “Even when I see it, I don’t believe it.” “What?” Will turned his head to find James’s blue eyes on him. “You’re the only one who’s not afraid of him.”

“I will go easy on you.” “Are you not the king’s champion?” A glint in those blue eyes. “I did not say I would not win.”

The words were soft, too soft to be entirely playful. “If I were king, would you be my queen?” “You dream.” Anharion smiled, as if he indulged his friend’s whimsy, though his cheeks burned. “A pleasant dream,” said Sarcean.

The absurd thought occurred to Will that if James had grown up a Steward, he would have kept the long hair. God, they had been friends; they had served together at the same court, under the same king. That idea was so utterly new that he couldn’t stop turning it over and over in his mind. There had been a time before the Collar, a time they had met in the sunlight, and in Anharion’s warm words the sweetest hint of flirtation, an indulgence Anharion offered to no one else, though Sarcean knew well that Anharion would never—

Casually, “Did I say anything?” “‘Run, run,’” said James, with a shrug.

“And you?” “Me?” said James. “Do you dream about him too?” James flushed. “You know what I was. You can guess what I dream.”

But sometimes when I wake up, I can’t move. Trapped in sleep, but awake, and it’s as if . . . there’s a great power bending over me. And it’s whispering—” Find you. “—I will always—” Find you. Try to run.

“They really call you that?” James went toward the pile of clothes that had been left out for Will, perhaps part of Sinclair’s cargo sent ahead. “What?” “Anharion.” “Why not? I’m betraying them, aren’t I?” said James, with a thin smile. And he tossed Will his clothes.

And keep away from anyone with a title or a posh voice.” “Don’t talk to your betters,” James elaborated unhelpfully. “Who are our betters?” said Cyprian, dangerously. “Everyone,” said James, “but especially me.”

“I am not playing his servant.” Cyprian tugged again at his waistcoat. “Nice legs,” James remarked, making everything worse.

James smiled tightly. “You must know from Sinclair that I don’t remember that life.” “Then perhaps you have questions about your master.” The silence that followed the word master seemed to burn, a scorching heat that shriveled what it touched. “My master,” said James, tasting the words. “You can tell so much from what he left behind. You, for example.” “Me,” said James. “His prize possession. It is fascinating to see his tastes in the flesh. May I?” He put his glasses on, and gestured toward James’s face. James is not a possession, Will wanted to say. He had to force himself to sit still, to allow the idea that someone was going to put hands on James. His head was pounding.

Kettering tilted James’s jaw up to regard him, as one might admire a valuable vase. “Extraordinary,” he said. “To think He kissed these very lips . . .” It was too much. Will swept his cup from the table, the sound as it shattered causing everyone to startle; Kettering releasing James and turning toward the sound. In the silence that opened up, his friends stared at him. “A happy interruption,” said Kettering, breaking the tension and holding his hands up in surrender. As if the accident with the cup was a charming, coincidental warning from the universe. He said, as if sharing an amusing inside joke with James, “Of course your master wouldn’t like others touching his things.”

“He’s loyal to us,” said Will. “Is he?” Cyprian’s voice was hard. “Don’t forget that he was reborn to serve the Dark King.” “I never forget that,” said Will.

God, were they breathing the same air? Had Anharion exhaled here for the last time, only to have his breath sealed up? Was that what now filled his lungs?

Will felt a surge of satisfaction and pride. Try to take me on the steps of my palace with James by my side.

“You may be the hand of the Devil,” said James, “but I am the hand of a Master more powerful than any you serve, and this mountain is His land.”

“But what is death,” said Kettering, “to one who can return?”