Page 8 of The Night Prince

My head throbs, and my mouth is as dry as a bone. I feel weak, as if my limbs have turned to twigs and could snap at any moment. A soft groan scrapes from my throat, and it feels like sand. There’s a beaker on the table beside me, and I grab it. I sniff the clear liquid inside, smell nothing, then gulp it downgreedily and set the beaker down again. It soothes my aching throat, and it’s so cold I feel it travel to my stomach.

I think I had a fever. I’ve no idea how long it lasted for. I try to sift through the dreams and hallucinations. It all blurs together, a tangled mess that hurts my mind. I remember Blake’s voice cutting through the veil of darkness, saying my body was trying to assimilate the wolf.

I fight the wave of fear that crashes over me. He could be wrong. He could have been lying.

Worse, he could have been telling the truth. I could be turning into one of the beings my kingdom has taught me to suppress, and to fear, for twenty years of my life. The part of me that the priest tried to whip out of me, that my father tried to poison, that condemned my mother to her fate. It could be real.

I remember something else—straddling Blake while he was in bed, while holding a knife to his throat. I shake my head. I would never do such a thing. A fevered dream, not a memory.

The air is stale in here, and smells like sickness. It reminds me of the mornings I spent on the edge of my mother’s bed, and the weeks I spent ill, locked in my chambers, after her death. Only she didn’t die of illness, like I’d thought. Anger simmers beneath my skin. My mother was murdered by my father.

I clench and unclench my fists, take a couple of deep breaths, and cage the feeling. I’m far away from him, now. Although perhaps, one day, Callum might help me gain justice for what he did.

I rub my face with both hands, then slide my feet out of bed. I was so thirsty when I woke up, I didn’t notice the piece of parchment next to the beaker of water, or the hunk of bread on a small plate, with a butter knife beside it. I pick up the note.

Princess, I’m in a meeting with some of Blake’s clan. I’ll be back shortly. Eat your breakfast. Stay where you are.

I’m ravenous, so I follow one of his commands. My stomach groans as I force down the dry bread. It doesn’t sit well, and I quickly swallow more water before setting the beaker down.

My entire soul protests at his second instruction. I don’t want to stay where I am. The walls feel as if they’re closing in on me. In the back of my mind, I hear myself as a young adolescent, pleading with one of the maids to let me go for a walk in the palace gardens, or join my father and brother for dinner in the Great Hall, or to ride my horse in the grounds like mother used to let me.

I can’t be that girl anymore. I swore I’d be more than that.

I push myself to my feet. My legs are a little shaky, and it feels like there are blades scraping the inside of my skull. I groan and clasp the windowsill to gain my balance. I take a few deep breaths. The room I’m in looks out onto a gloomy courtyard. The sun is blocked by roiling grey clouds, and rain splats against the cobblestones below.

There’s an armoire in the corner of the room, and I make my way toward it, hoping for fresh clothes. Only male clothes hang here, breeches and shirts and a kilt that is the same red tartan as Callum’s. I wonder if Fiona, or someone else from his clan, arrived while I was sleeping to bring him this. I hope so. I hope Fiona is alright in the aftermath of Callum and Blake’s betrayal.

The shirt I’ve been wearing is stiff with sweat. I pull it off, and select another. I’m not sure whose it is until I’ve slipped it on and the scent of dark pine curls around me. My pulse kicks up inprotest, even as I fasten the shirt up. I don’t want to wear Blake’s clothes, or smell like him, but it will do for now. I pull on some breeches too, and cinch them in in with a belt because they fall low on my hips.

Someone taps against the door. I freeze.

Callum would have just walked in. I look over my shoulder, at the butter knife sitting beside the plate of bread. I hurry over to pick it up, drop it in my pocket, then warily open the door.

A girl around my age and build, with long wavy dark hair, stands in the corridor. She is striking, with a sharp jaw and plump lips. Her dress is lovely, black with long sleeves made of lace. She looks somewhat familiar, though I don’t think we’ve met.

“Hello?” My voice is hoarse from lack of use and I clear my throat.

“Blake requests your presence in his council chambers.”

I incline my head. I may not appreciate being summoned by the alpha of Lowfell, but at least it saves me from searching an unfamiliar castle for Callum.

“Are you part of his clan?” I ask.

“Aye.”

I smile, hoping to make a friend. “I’m Aurora.”

She brushes a strand of hair over her ear, and I catch a glimpse of a scar or a tattoo on her wrist, which she hurriedly covers with her sleeve. “I know.”

I wait for her to tell me her name. When she merely exhales as if I’m wasting her time, I frown and step back. Ishould have guessed the people in Blake’s clan would be as obnoxious as their alpha. “One moment, please.”

The only shoes I have are the bloodstained muddy slippers I wore when James gave me back to Sebastian. Wincing, I put them on.

The girl doesn’t speak to me as she leads me through a labyrinth of narrow corridors. The style is not dissimilar to Castle Madadh-allaidh—the castle I was first brought to when Callum took me to the Northlands—but it seems more claustrophobic. Perhaps it’s the lack of tapestries and clan colors that make the dark walls feel closer together. Iron sconces hold torches that flicker as we pass.

“—I won’t risk her.” Callum’s thick accent sounds almost like a growl as we approach a door.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Blake’s tone is smooth like satin. “She’ll be fine. We can handle-“

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