Page 24 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

How can something so enticing feel so terrible once inside it?

Get it together. Myla wills herself to stay focused on the risks and rewards of this endeavor. With trembling hands, she cups his chin, pulling him in for a warm kiss, the alcohol on his tongue potent. He is drunk. This is her opportunity to excuse herself without raising suspicion. “I fear I do not know up from down,” she giggles, letting her fingertips gently explore his handsome features. “You must excuse me; I need sleep if I am to properly entertain you tomorrow.”

He growls protests into her neck, hungry fingers digging into her hips, but his words are slurred and as he slumps further into the throne, she considers herself excused.

Myla stands, wobbling beneath the effort. Voices and music alike swirl around her resembling a tempest, threatening to throw her off course. The stairs seem a daunting task, let alone the walk to her chamber, so she is grateful when Elsa finds her side, a firm hand bracing beneath her elbow and guiding her through the haze of movement. Vaguely, Myla is aware of Bryar taking up his position behind her, following protectively.

Proximity to him is unusually warm. He ripples with rage.

Within minutes, as they slowly put distance between, she and the Blood Stealer, Elsa’s magic seeps into her veins, and Myla feels a lurch in her stomach. The letdown of his control is not unlike recovering from too much drink. Upon entering her chamber, Myla trips over her own skirts and falls to the ground, vomiting onto the ornate tiles.

Elsa gasps and Fern rushes over, wiping the corner of Myla’s mouth with her apron. “My Lady,” she coos sympathetically. “Let us get you out of this dress.”

“Wait—” Myla holds up a hand to stay her ladies and presses shaking hands to her belly. The first attempt to redirect her magic comes to a disappointing, sputtering halt, as does the second. A third and final attempt is warm and calming as that sacred space halts its weaving of life. Breathlessly, Myla peers up from where she crouches and manages a weak smile. Though only Elsa understands what has occurred.

The two ladies help her into a thin shift. Fern stands before her door, though it is barred, and Elsa instructs her to intercept anyone trying to enter.

Elsa sits behind her in the large bed, running a comb through her dark hair and whispering comforting remarks. “You are performing beautifully,” she begins. “The doubt and fear you see around you . . . it is temporary. You have to keep focused on the end goal.”

Myla nods slowly, nothing in control beyond her breathing. Her thoughts come in waves of confusion with nothing clear enough to form a cohesive stream of consciousness. “Elsa, I did not realize it was going to feel like this.”

“You could not have known.”

“No, but . . . I think Bryar knew.”

“He has an irritating way of always being right—do not tell him I said so,” Elsa interjects. “It does not mean you were wrong. You can both be right in this case.”

Fern peeks around the corner. “Speaking of Captain Monroe,” she says sheepishly. “He is talking outside the door, asking for me to let him in.” She looks at Myla, concerned by the ashen queen before her. “Do I . . . uh . . . let him in?”

Elsa stands, moving past Fern. “I will handle it.”

“I can not let you in right now; she needs space.”

Myla can not hear his words, but his tone is distressed. She wants nothing more than to let him in, to feel safe beside him, but with the Blood Stealer down the hall, it is too risky.

“I will give it to her.” After the door closes and latches, Elsa reappears around the corner. She runs an exhausted hand over her face before speaking. “He says he is by the door tonight, and I am to give this to you.” She slips a piece of paper into Myla’s hand, which she carefully unfolds.

“You have survived worse. You will survive this, and we will too.” —B

A hint of comfort glows and Myla folds the parchment and slips it inside the shaft of her pillow. “I guess he loves me still,” she says with a slight smile.

A look of confusion washes over Fern’s face, and her mouse-like nose scrunches in question. “The captain? Love? Still—what?”

Myla and Elsa share a brief laugh before Elsa speaks up. “You are in it now, kid. If the secret gets out, we will know it is you.”

Fern grins slightly. “Oh, I knew he came in here from time to time. I just thought it was . . . at Your Grace’s discretion, you know? I did not realize it was love.”

Elsa bellows, clasping her hands in a gleeful clap. “Fern, what do you know of such things?”

Fern simply sighs and sits down on the chest at the foot of Myla’s bed. “Firsthand? Nothing . . . and I should like to keep it that way, given how miserable it seems to make a person.” She grumbles the last sentence before continuing, “Can I do anything more for you, Your Grace?”

“No, thank you Fern,” Myla responds with the sincerest smile she can muster.

“I will retire then, Your Grace.”

Myla shakes her head, reaching for Fern’s hand. “It is not safe. You will stay here with Elsa and me. If I could bring every lady in the palace into my room to protect her, I would. Keeping you and Elsa safe will have to do.” With her free hand, she grasps Elsa’s and looks between the two. “Thank you both for your help. I could not manage without you.”

As Myla falls asleep, she reflects on Bryar’s message. How can he love her after watching her mold like putty at the whim of the Blood Stealer? A warmth fills her middle, stirring like a summoning. Though Myla wants to believe it is brought on by thoughts of Bryar and their earlier encounter, she is afraid it is the call of the Blood Stealer. As of right now, she can not be sure of the authenticity of any feelings.