Page 140 of Thorn Season
“Wouldn’t what? Lie to me? Threaten my father?” I coiled my specter tighter, ignoring the strangled sound he made. “You’ve already proved what you are. You would hurt anyone to save yourself.”
“Not you,” he wheezed. “I would never hurt you like that.”
“Try.”I stalked forward. “You’re a Hunter, aren’t you? Fight me like you fought those Wielders. Kill me like you killed my father.”
My vision tunneled, stark red, my specter throbbing around me—but not like the night in the ballroom when it had spilled beyond my control.
This timeIwas pouring it out.
Garret kicked at the wall but didn’t try for his blazer again. Heonly begged with those dark, familiar eyes, his pulse raging under my hold.
“Fight back!” I shouted.
“Please, Alissa.Pl—” He choked on the word.
I was killing him and I didn’t care.I didn’t care.
Aclinksounded—too far away to matter. Then a slow, steady hiss.
Fog engulfed me before I knew what was happening. It crammed down my throat, clung to my skin, nipped like wasp stings at my specter until the power hurtled back into me.
Garret and I slammed to our knees in the same moment—both heaving and spluttering, clawing at our necks. His figure swam amid ash and smoke, and I instinctively reached for him—a beacon. An anchor.
Something pricked the back of my neck, and my body went loose. I didn’t feel the impact of hitting the marble.
Through the haze, I saw that Garret’s pleading eyes weren’t fixed on me anymore but on the space above me.
“This explains a great deal,” Briar said. “What a waste of Capewell blood.” Then her last words—chasing me into darkness, suffusing my failing body with fear: “The king will be so pleased.”
40
The air was rich with the apricot-golden light of high summer, the sun making rainbow shimmers through my lashes. Our host of Verenian nobles drifted through the scene, full and happy and inhaling the heady scent of roses—for the flowers sprouted everywhere, shedding to the cobblestones in a red-pink petal sea. Fiddle music and laughter tinkled all around.
And heading the congregation was King Erik, his blond hair shining, his cape catching the breeze. He smiled broadly at the citizens of Henthorn, and many were so enthralled that they forgot to bow as he passed. To those, he offered the sweetest smiles.
We turned the corner, and there began the oohs and aahs. Because, though taller and narrower and washed amber under the fierce Henthornian sunshine, the jewel-colored buildings might have been plucked straight from the streets of Vereen.
The citizens fed off the excitement, throwing more roses at our feet. One grazed my ankle. I winced as the thorn nicked skin.
“Can we go now?” I looked up at Father’s face, fragmented by the sun’s glare.
“Don’t be rude, my girl. The Opal shall be the capital’s new crafts district, and the people are excited. We must honor them as they’ve honored us.”
I pouted. If they wanted to honor the kingdom’s craftspeople, they could’ve chosen a better song. Judging by the strident voices at the end of the street, half didn’t know the words. They certainly didn’t know the tune.
Father clasped my hand. I’d told him not to do that. I would turn fifteen this year, and I didn’t want to seem like a child in front of the other nobles.
I began pulling away when I noticed a deep groove between his brows. I stood on tiptoe to see what he was looking at.
King Erik’s guards were closing ranks around him, their silver-toed boots glinting. Through the gaps of their armor, I saw a thicker jumble of people, moving with more agitation than the celebrators lining the streets. The fiddle music died out, giving way to a thunderous clacking. Because those agitated people were pounding the cobblestones with the butts of wooden staffs, crushing the roses until that heavy scent scratched the back of my throat.
They hadn’t been singing. They’d been calling out names. Zelda Jean, Tavis Kimba, Ruby Clay.
“Sympathizers,” Father whispered.
The word ignited in the dry heat. I elbowed between the nobles and stopped at the front of the crowd. To everyone else, the sympathizers must have appeared wild-eyed and rowdy. But to me, their faces were blazing and righteous.
These were the sympathizers—theWholeborns—of Daradon, campaigning for the lives of Wielders. For lives like mine.
