The Girl Beneath the Crimson Moon
Being dead is dark.
I would think that when your soul departs to the underworld, you might experience a whole host of sensations and emotions. And had someone asked me how I imagined Mortuua’s realm, I would have said fire and brimstone. Perhaps ominous shadows. But no vision whatsoever?
I hadn’t anticipated that.
And, on top of the lack of vision, there is the hazy feeling of being disconnected from every other sense except a gentle puff of air across my cheeks. Suddenly, a body tumbles over mine, knocking me onto my stomach. As whoever fell on me struggles to extricate themselves from the tangle our limbs have created, the grit of dirt presses into my cheek.
It’s like the fall to the ground restored all sensation to my body, including my hearing. The sound of thunder joins the screams echoing in my ears. Vibrations rattle against my aching joints and throbbing injuries where they press against the ground beneath me.
“As much as I am fascinated by your interpretation of Nachternel,” an ancient-sounding voice intones in my mind, “I feel I should inform you that you are, in fact, very much alive.”
My muddled brain struggles to make sense of the words. “Roan?” I hear my voice croak out. My throat is dry with dust and dehydration.
He answers, “I’m relieved to know that your time in this arena has not completely robbed you of memory as it has common sense.”
Whoever crashed into me has managed to free their limbs from mine, so I press my palms flat on the dirt and lift to all fours. Despite the vibrations climbing from the ground through my arms, nearly tipping me over again, I push myself to my feet.
“I’m not dead?” I ask him as I try to peer in vain through the dark.
“Decidedly not,” he confirms.
“Then why can’t I see anything?” I ask, baffled by the continued darkness.
“A veil has been draped across our eyes.”
I reach up to touch my face, “I don’t feel anything.”
“Not veil of fabric, but one of darkest shadow. You cannot see because it’s dark, fledgling.” Roan sounds as though he thinks my brain might be dim, as well.
Actually, he kind of has a point.
“Why do I feel so…dumb?” I ask, after trying to come up with an alternative word and failing.
“I find it refreshing that you recognize the inferiority of human intelligence,” Roan tells me.
“No, I mean right this moment. My brain feels…fuzzy,” I explain.
A long-suffering sigh sounds in my head. “All magic has a cost, and you have paid a steep price for the use of yours—and mine. You require rest,” Roan scolds.
“I’ll get right on that,” I tell him. “Just as soon as I can see a few inches in front of my face.”
“De Veend, what the fuck are you nattering about over there?” A sour voice shouts at me.
“Dagmar?” I look in the voice’s direction.
The thundering is getting louder, the vibrations stronger, but I manage to hear her even so.
“Why do you sound so surprised? We were right next to each other a few minutes ago.” Her voice is getting closer.
“Maybe I have a concussion,” I answer, thickly. Though I hadn’t hit my head.
Her voice is right near my ear as she says, “Where are you?” She then slams into my side.
“Oof,” I grunt and stumble. Pain shoots through my ankle, and my bruised ribs throb from the impact of her against me.
Right, the trial.
Dagmar and I had been about to fight to the death when the darkness fell. Not, however, before I struggled my way through a moving hedge maze, burned my hand on a magical krahbek, and seriously twisted my ankle in a pit full of sentient vines.
On top of my existing injuries.
A normal day, really.
Her fingers dig into my arm, “I have a feeling something big is happening. Do you know anything about it?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see it. “No, I—”
Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blows into us, kicking up dust that stings my eyes, coats the insides of my cheeks, and catches in my teeth. The darkness seems to part with the path of the wind as a large figure comes barreling toward us. I open my mouth to scream in alarm when a warm, callused hand slams over my mouth, shoving my lips into my teeth, cutting the insides along their edges. The taste of blood mingles with dirt on my tongue.
“Quiet,” a deep voice orders sharply. “This is dangerous enough as it is.”
The scent of peppermint fills my nostrils.
“Rmmf?” I mumble against the large hand. It doesn’t move. I sink my teeth into it.
“Ow, fuck! What was that for?” Rafe Kriegeur asks as he pulls his hand away from my face.
“I just wanted to see if it was actually you,” I say, stupidly.
I can almost feel the frown in his voice as he turns away from me and says, “What’s wrong with her?”
I feel a shrug next to me. “Maybe she has a concussion,” Dagmar answers.
“Fucking wonderful,” he mutters an instant before I feel the ground tilt with alarming speed. I would scream, but it takes all my concentration not to throw up on myself as I fall.
Except instead of falling, I land stomach-down on top of something warm and solid. This time, I do scream. Because Rafe’s shoulder is wedged directly against my bruised ribs, and the band of his arm presses painfully against my injured calf, the result of the deep puncture wound I received in the darkness trial. The one I’m pretty sure came open during my struggle in the vine pit, if the moisture I can feel inside my boot is any indication.
Rafe doesn’t ask if I’m all right. He doesn’t say anything. He just starts running, the clouds of darkness somehow closing behind Dagmar, who follows closely behind us. The jostling motion and the tight hold Rafe has on me combine to make an utterly nauseating ride. I close my eyes, tightening my fists into the fabric of his tunic, and try to breathe through my nose—as deeply as my injured ribs and the shoulder shoved into my diaphragm will allow. Rather than abating the nausea, it makes me extremely aware of my body’s movement with every breath and the blood rushing to my upside-down head at an alarming rate.
The longer we run, the more the darkness seems to thin, to where our surroundings become clearer, like during the wee hours of morning when the sun’s rays have just begun to pierce the blanket of night. Shapes of buildings begin to make themselves known, and I can see the green of the grass beneath Rafe’s feet as he runs.
How does a man this fucking big run this fast? And while carrying me? He can’t possibly keep this pace up.
“Rafe,” I pound on his back.
He doesn’t answer.
My brain suddenly registers the dagger I’m still clutching in my right hand. I’ve lost my arena krahbek, but I’ve managed to keep a white-knuckled grip on this small weapon, at least, despite the burning sting in my palm. I look at the dagger, then Rafe’s body.
I shove the point of the dagger into the buttock cheek closest to me.
Rafe stumbles but then picks up running again. “What the fuck, de Veend?”
I see we’re back on last-name terms. Like all the small moments of budding connection we’d shared have been erased.
Blackmail has a way of doing that.
I can’t regret it at the moment. I’m too close to passing out from the blood pooling in my skull. I can only handle so much at once.
I tell him, “You can’t carry me the whole time, I’m too heavy.”
“Won’t need to,” he replies tersely, but doesn’t explain further.
I lift my head and see Dagmar is still following behind us, icy eyes wide with fear. Or maybe she’s just trying to see. It’s still pretty dark.
“Oof. Ugh. Blagh!” I continue to grunt as Rafe climbs a set of stone stairs, each footfall onto each tread sending an unpleasant jolt through my aching body.
“De Veend, shut up or I’ll poke you with my dagger, and I will be far less gentle.” Rafe’s voice rumbles against me, but I can hear the pant of exertion in his speech. He’s running out of steam.
I open my mouth to object.
“Shut up or I’ll gag you myself,” Dagmar hisses.
I want to say something, but both of them seem so mad at me that I decide not to. And my head really is swimming. I must have slipped into brief unconsciousness, because I’m suddenly jolted awake by the crashing sound of wood against stone. I can’t tell where we are, only that the wooden floor beneath Rafe’s feet is worn from the passage of many feet before his and the light—while brighter than it is outside—is low and soothing.
“Are you sure you can keep up?” I hear Rafe question.
“Well, since you’re carrying me, that seems like a ridiculous question,” I slur sleepily.
I feel a sting across my arse. “Ow!” Like I needed one more sore spot.
“I told you I wouldn’t be gentle,” Kriegeur says menacingly.
“Did you poke my arse with your dagger?” I ask, indignantly.
“What is taken must also be given,” Roan tells me through the bond. I scowl at Rafe’s back. I try to lift my head, but I’m facing a wall, so it doesn’t give me any information.
“Please,” Rafe scoffs. “A mere love slap, as a warning.”
“For creatures who often seem desperate to mate, human courtship is baffling,” Roan muses.
“I think he was being sarcastic,” I say. “Although I can’t be certain since I’m upside down.”
“What’s wrong with her?” A vaguely familiar voice asks.
“Concussion,” Dagmar’s voice says.
“She’s probably drunk. I certainly would like to be.” Rafe says as he begins jogging again. I groan as my injuries feel every bounce and bump.
“Kriegeur, where are we going?” Dagmar’s voice asks as we run. Her injuries must be catching up with her, also, based on her breathlessness.
“Docks,” Rafe answers. “They should be waiting there.”
They? My addled brain manages to cling to that singular word as being unusual.
“Yes, for everything else that’s happened so far has seemed so utterly ordinary,” Roan drawls.
“Now you’re being sarcastic,” I mumble.
No one remarks on me speaking when I’ve been told to be quiet, but that could be because we break through a wooden door and are then hit with the salty spray of the Flumevian river. This close to it, the roar of the always-tumultuous vein of icy water that surrounds and surges past Stachtenbaste’s rocky cliffs is astounding. I can barely hear the sound of Rafe’s boots as they hit the wooden docks. I can feel the vibration of his voice as he tries to speak over the rushing rapids. I don’t even attempt to listen, resigned to my fate hanging from his shoulder like a limp noodle.
“Looks like you get your wish,” he says.
Then I’m swinging forward through the air. I let out an inhuman screech that is abruptly interrupted by the feeling of my feet slamming onto the dock. Dizzy from the swift change in position, I pitch forward into Rafe’s chest, my cheek smacking into the unrelenting muscle there. He grabs onto my shoulders to keep me from tipping sideways over the dock’s edge.
“What do you mean?” I ask him, looking around.
Even in the low light, I can see the grim look on his face as he speaks to me in clipped, breathless bursts. “Crew’s not here. Plan’s fucked.” His eyes cut to the water. “Can’t use the boat. Not enough people to push off and steer. We’ll swim.”
“I mean, I don’t really feel like swimming right now. The water seems pretty rough. I’m not sure why you thought that was my wish,” I tell him.
He looks like he’s about to say more when a shout sounds from above us. His head looks up sharply, and a string of curses erupts from his mouth.
“I think that’s the most profanity I’ve heard uttered in one sentence,” Roan says, sounding annoyingly impressed.
I don’t get to answer him because Rafe turns and says, “We’ve got company. Let’s hope you swim as well as you run your mouth.”
Without further explanation, Rafe pushes me off the side of the dock and into the river.
Ice suffuses my skin when I land. In a perverse way, the shock of the water’s frigid temperature provides the jolt I need to move my arms and keep my head above the surface. The roiling rapids frequently slosh into my eyes, nose, and mouth, burning my vision, impeding my breathing, and forcing me to fight a losing battle against the water.
“Roan!” I scream into the rushing water. I feel energy spread through my limbs as he frees a stream of our shared magic, my Rabensblut instinctively pulling the thread. I know it’s dangerous, given how far my body has already been pushed to its limits, but without it, I will certainly drown. The magic flowing through my blood propels me forward. Though I do not know in which direction I should be going, I have to trust that I’ll find my way.
“If only you knew someone with an aerial view,” Roan says dryly. “Continue on your path, fledgling, your instinct—or blind luck—has served you well.”
All my energy is focused on swimming, on making it to the shore, so I can’t even return his quip with one of my own. I can feel that surge of magic rapidly depleting, which increases my panic and only makes it harder to swim. My breath saws in and out of my lungs painfully, searing along my airways as it’s ripped from my mouth; my heart pounds so hard it competes with the sound of the river in my ears; and I’ve lost all sight of Rafe, of Dagmar, and am quickly losing sight of any hope I had in escaping.
I’m so tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of losing.
It would be so much easier to let the river win. To give up.
Roan’s voice pierces my mind as sharp as talons, grabbing onto it with a determination so fierce it’s almost painful. “You are Rabensblut. You may bend at the force of the wind. You may falter under the crashing waves. You may despair. You may hurt. You may fear. You do not give up. Now, move!”
A crimson surge of magic, of rage, floods my system and senses.
I do not give up.
I lift my exhausted limbs and push through the water—one excruciating arm’s length at a time—until I can see the hazy edge of the shore crowned by the towering pines of the Grenzâme Forest ahead of me. I nearly sob with relief as I pull myself forward. I don’t see anyone else in my path and briefly wonder if I’m even going the right way. Then, a searing pain burns along the side of my neck. I pause, disoriented, and reach up to touch it with my fingers, which come away stained with blood. I stare, dumbfounded, at my fingers as the river washes away the evidence of my new injury. But where did it come from?
“De Veend, KEEP SWIMMING!” I hear Dagmar’s voice behind me, the thrashing of bodies among the waves, and I don’t even look to see what’s happened, what’s caused me to bleed.
I push through the water, legs kicking furiously against the current, against all odds. But I’m tired, I’m injured, and the current is strengthening. I can feel my energy flagging, and I know if I pull more Rabensblut, it might be the end of me. I feel the water surge beside me, and then I’m being stopped by a thick forearm. Panicked, I begin thrashing, fighting my would-be captor.
“Greta, stop! It’s me,” Rafe tells me.
I don’t stop fighting, don’t believe it’s an ally until he’s in front of me and I’m looking at him face to face, can see his dark hair plastered wetly to his head, his onyx eyes glowering at me from behind sooty lashes glittering with icy jewels of water. He grabs onto my arms and turns his back to me, draping them over his neck and clasping my hands together.
“Hold on,” he tells me before he shoots forward through the water.
I hear shouting from what sounds like directly behind and above us. A sudden, sharp stab hits my left arm, and I feel Rafe’s body tense beneath mine. I look to the side and see an arrow sticking out of my arm.
The arrow has pierced my arm and gone through to Rafe’s shoulder, the brown and white striped feathers of its fletching billow almost cheerfully in the mist kicked up from the river. As if this plumed poniard hasn’t pinioned me to another human being. A hysterical scream rises in my throat, and I try to instinctively pull away, but that only causes me more pain and him to shout. I have to stay still, or I risk making it all worse. I chance a look over my shoulder, but we’re too far from the cliffs of Stachtenbaste’s island for me to clearly see how many archers are aiming for us, how many people have given chase. The water ripples beside us as arrows continue to plunge beneath its surface, thankfully missing their mark.
Finally, we reach the shore, and Rafe begins to wade forward, his feet able to touch the bottom much sooner than mine would have, thanks to his towering height. As he begins to pull from the water, it’s painfully obvious that I lack the strength to hold onto him with just my arms.
In fact, it’s just plain painful.
A scream rips from my throat as he starts to stand, and I am draped from his shoulders. Grunting in discomfort, he steps back a pace or two and reaches behind him to brace his large hands around the backs of my thighs. He pulls them up around his waist until I’m wrapped around him like a clinging barnacle on the hull of a ship. My limbs are trembling from the effort of holding myself up. I can feel blood slowly trickling from my neck. My left arm is burning from the arrow going through it and from me clenching my muscles hard so I don’t slide down Rafe’s back. The air hits my water-soaked clothing, and my teeth begin to chatter. Rafe takes off into the forest in a run, leaving the shouts from the walls of Stachtenbaste behind us.
He pushes through the trees, the only sound our breathing and the crunch of leaves beneath his boots. I want to give him words of encouragement, but I’m barely hanging onto consciousness as it is, and don’t want to break his concentration. I don’t want to look back to see if Dagmar made it, either. I can’t face that possibility yet.
I must have fainted again, because I wake when the motion beneath me has ceased, and I hear Rafe’s voice breaking through the fog of my oblivion.
“Do it,” he says tersely.
I hear a sharp whistle. See the flash of a blade. And suddenly, the fletching protruding from my arm is gone—sheared clean from the arrow’s shaft.
What is happening?
“Brace yourself, fledgling,” Roan says gently.
I am decidedly un-braced when strong hands hook beneath my underarms and pull me off of Rafe’s back, sliding my arm off of the shaft of the arrow. I take one look at the bloody hole in my arm, the arrowhead still deeply embedded in the muscle of Rafe’s shoulder, and I no longer need a veil of darkness to cover my eyes.
I have fallen into it.
Chapter One | Make Good Your Escape
Voices bleed into my consciousness as I stir from my dreamless dark.
“…And now you’re injured, when we can least afford it.” A deep, angry voice makes my head pulse with pain.
Whoever it is should relax a little. Do they have to be so loud?
“Can we ever afford an injury?” a familiar voice asks. My brow wrinkles as I try to place it, but my eyes are still too heavy to open.
“This isn’t a time for flippancy. This is a time to cover ourselves. To plan.” First voice is far too grumpy.
“We did plan,” second voice replies. “It went wrong.”
First voice says, “We shouldn’t have had to plan in the first place. We shouldn’t be here at all.”
I want to snort. He’s telling me. I should’ve never been in the Freiheit to begin with. Or Stachtenbaste. All those stairs…
“I told you, she threatened Hafenverre. I didn’t have a choice,” second voice says tersely.
I frown and try to open my eyes. Is he talking about me? I didn’t have a choice either. I try to move, to sit up, but a sharp pain stabs through my arm, and I cry out.
A third voice says, “Lovely. She’s awake again.”
A fourth voice snaps, “Leave her the fuck alone. She did what she had to do to survive.”
“She barely did,” sneers the third voice. “And nearly got all of us killed in the process. Seems like a pretty lousy fucking record to me.”
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to beg, to plead. To make them understand. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.
I just needed to get out.
A knowing voice echoes, “Logic will always fail when faced with righteous anger. The passage of time is the only balm for such wounds. Sleep, fledgling.”
So I do.
**********