Page 65 of A Kingdom of Lies

It was easy to let my magic spill out of me, just a little, but enough to serve as a warning. An unseen breeze melted from my skin, tousling my hair as well as catching the loose papers and parchments along with it. Immediately, Duncan’s wine-sharp breath thickened in a cloud beyond his lips which stole the smug grin that had been creeping across his face.

“Don’t push your luck with me, Hunter,” I warned, standing firm before him. “Don’t make me regret saving your life, or I will correct that mistake and find my own way to Lockinge.”

Duncan tensed his jaw, trying everything to stop his teeth from chattering as the cold breeze left ice spreading across the floor and walls of the attic.

“How peculiar,” he mused, lip turned up at the corner.

I called the cold back, returning the magic into my bones. “What?”

“Ialmostbelieved you.” He kicked his legs back over the bed until he was lying down, arms behind his head. He attempted to act as though he was carefree, but I noticed the wince as his hands brushed the wound at the back of his head.

“Not quite, but almost,” Duncan continued, eyes closed as though he sleep-talked. “Keep it up and you may even make me fear you one day.”

“Do you have any coin?” I spat, unable to bite my tongue.

“Never had much care for it, nor need.”

“That’s a shame. How else am I going to buy the fucks to give you?”

Duncan barked a laugh. “Excellent, truly excellent. Who’d have thought that your kind could be such stimulating company? I’ve a feeling these next few days are going to pass by in a blur. Don’t you?”

Biting down on my bottom lip until copper filled my mouth, I stifled a response. I felt more like a prisoner, stuck in this attic with him, than I had during my time in Finstock.

The silence that followed allowed me to register my own feeling of drunkenness from the short swig I had taken of the holy wine. I would’ve preferred another mouthful – another ten mouthfuls – if it meant drowning out Duncan and what he had to say. But before long, the Hunter was snoring, mouth agape whilst the wine dragged him into sleep, leaving me to the chorus of his breathing and the people singing in the church below for company.

I contemplated smothering him with a pillow, but I knew now that death never brought peace.

CHAPTER 22

Abbot Nathanial had followed through on his vow and then some, returning when the sun was at its highest peak above Ayvbury with the beautiful offer of a bath, clean clothes and a good meal. It was incredible just how different my perspective on life was after my skin had been scrubbed and my belly was full of food.

We’d taken turns to wash, creeping through the empty church towards the abbot’s private rooms where the tub of lukewarm water waited.

Duncan had either pretended to be asleep when the abbot had returned for us, or really was enthralled in his drunken haze, because he didn’t stir. But by the time I’d returned to the attic, the bed was empty, and the abbot was waiting beside it, sitting upon the stool once again.

Hair still damp, my eyes flicked around the room as though he hid between towering stacks of books. “Where’s Duncan?”

The abbot looked up, eyes fogged with glistening sadness. “It would seem he has been harbouring some negative emotions towards me.”

“Perhaps I should go and find him,” I said, paranoid that his dirt-covered uniform and blood-soaked hair would only draw unwanted attention to us. “I did try and warn him not to leave, not with…”

“Duncan was never one to discuss the thoughts that clouded his mind,” the abbot said, shoulders hunching with one great exhale. “Even as a child he preferred the solace of his silence to conversation. He never saw the benefit of having the Creator to discuss his mind’s demons with either. Even as a young lad he believed prayer to be nothing more than wasted breath. It’s what surprised me most that he was drafted into the rabble of Hunters. What was so different from our god, to theirs, that made them so desirable?”

The answer was simple; the promise of vengeance.

“Do you know of their god?” I asked. “Because I’ve never heard of Duwar before. Not in any of the teachings when I grew up, or in mention from the fey.”

“Because history has a habit of forgetting itself, then wonders why we repeat mistakes.” The abbot’s expression changed as quick as a summer storm, downturned expression lifting into a furious snarl. “I do, indeed, know about Duwar. But only in part. Only what… the angels sing to me.”

Angels? Now this man was senile, for sure. “And what did thoseangelssay about Duwar?”

“That Duwarisno god. Duwar is chaos incarnate. A monster. A lie for lost souls to follow.”

“What about Altar?” I asked, watching the abbot’s expression soften once again. “Do you view the fey god in the same light?”

“Not at all.” Nathanial gasped, clutching his chest as though an arrow struck him. “I gave my soul to the Creator long before I even knew of gods. Then, by the time the first hairs grew on my chest, I knew my life’s purpose as well as my own name. To spread the Creator’s teachings to those who listen, and encourage belief in those with space for it. Angels visited me – great winged warriors brandishing gold weapons.”

“Is the mention of angels just a figment of speech?” I asked, unable to hide my smirk.

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