Page 12 of The Blood Queen

I’m aware of what I’m doing. Aware that Alyth’s watching, panting, tears in her eyes and horror mixing with hope mixing with grief on her face. The High Blade’s watching too, only she’s smiling, a dark, twisted little thing that doesn’t reach those dead eyes of hers.

The other two guards dive forward, one looking like he’s going into his own Red Cap rage, and still the High Blade watches me passively.

Her blood I won’t wear as war paint. No, her blood doesn’t deserve to be used at all, to be remembered. I’ll wash it away into the icy rivers that cut through this land. I’ll have Alyth’s fae creatures help me dilute her blood until it’s forgotten and watered to nothing.

But finally, she speaks.

Many words or just one or maybe just a noise—I can’t hear it. Can’t catch it.

I’ve heard this before.

Darnley, muttering this spell to control me in my blackout.

Panic sears through me, and I surge faster before—

“Stop.”

The other soldiers obey.

And—

And I do too.

I’m hunched over Alyth on the table, one hand reaching for the bindings on her wrist, the other up to defend against the guard coming at me.

Stop.

It ricochets through me, cramping my muscles, rendering all action paused even as I rage and fight. I’m the one shouting now, the pressure of trying to resist the High Blade’s command making my face hot and the tendons in my neck bulge, and I shout again. I scream.

This is how Darnley controlled me when he got me to try to kill Alyth. Because what good is an army of rampaging berserkers if you can’t control them?

The High Blade stares, her gaze flicking over my face. “You disappoint us, Samson Calthorpe.”

My breathing won’t slow, the bloodlust still eating me from the inside out.

The High Blade’s head cocks to the side, and something flashes in her eyes, the first sign of life. Only it’s calculation, excitement, and I know I should fear it, but I want to peel the skin off her face. I want to take the dagger in her hand and stick it straight up through her jaw.

The High Blade waves at Alyth. “The barrier guardian is refusing to be useful, Samson. You promised us she would be useful. She will not tell us what defenses the fae court has made to their portals. No, she is being a most unhelpful map.”

I haven’t looked at her wounds closely. Haven’t been able to, not in the chaos, not in the fervor.

But now my eyes drop, and the lines across Alyth’s arms, the thick smears of blood—they’re not just jagged cuts. They’re X’s connected by thin lines, and… Is that meant to be a mountain peak?

The High Blade has drawn a map of Scotland on Alyth’s arms.

Seeing that blood, seeing that gore, slams up against my Red Cap bloodlust like dousing a fire. Agony corkscrews through me, one great gasping breath yanking from my lungs.

“She told us the Caiy Stone in Edinburgh is easily accessed,” the High Blade says. She lowers the dagger point to a spot on Alyth’s sternum. Alyth whimpers, and part of my soul drains clean away. “But we know that this is the one the fae court guards most of all. She lies to us, Samson. She tries to trick us. Foolish, idiot guardian. She also told us that we should focus here.” The dagger goes to a spot near a jagged line through Alyth’s forearm, and she cries out. I’m numb, head to toe. “But we know all portals near the border were closed long ago. What about the Highlands, Alyth? What of the portals there?”

I shout, still unable to move, unable to act, knowing what’s coming. But the noise chokes against the spell, and I stand there, mute and useless, waiting for the High Blade to drag the blade up Alyth’s arm, gouge in a place where the Highlands are—

But the dagger lifts. Drips blood down on Alyth’s skin.

The High Blade extends it to me.

“Take it,” she says, and my arm moves without my say-so. I snatch the dagger, only I hold it prone in front of me.

Stab the High Blade.