Page 13 of Thief of Souls
A half dozen soul-traps hang from his throat. He likes to leave his fur cloak open, so they’re visible. One of them calls to me, the wisp of pale blue mist caressing the glass it’s trapped within as if it can sense me.
My soul.
It was cut from me the night I was born in order to ensure my loyalty. With it, he owns me. Without it I can never truly escape, for he can snuff my life simply by closing his fist around that small crystal cylinder and crushing it.
I’ve heard stories of my birth. There’s something about the meld of wraith and fae that often makes delivering a half-born child difficult. Some say it’s the curse cast upon us, fighting to twist the fae mother’s magic. In defense, my mother’s power sought to protect her, which nearly killed me. My father cut me from her womb in order to save my life, and she was left to bleed to death in her bed as he beheld all his hopes and dreams... and found them utterly lacking.
I was small, sickly, and gleaming like mother-of-pearl. In the eyes of my father, who had hoped for a strong child born of two powerful bloodlines, I was an abject failure. He cast me at a wet nurse and told her that if I lived, then I was to be brought before him at the age of five in order to see if anything could be redeemed of my worth.
The first I knew of the world was the small hovel where I was raised. The potential of my bloodlines was too important for the wet nurse, Thia, to dare let me starve, but there was no kindness to be found among the several bastards she raised in exchange for my father’s coin. With three older “brothers” and a “sister” who liked to cuff me when nobody was looking, there were only scraps of food to eat, and a small nest of hay under the bed to sleep in.
The first time I ever Sifted—slipping from shadow to shadow—was when I was four, and a pair of my “brothers” tried to drown me in a well. All I can remember is that I was terrified and desperate enough that I somehow managed to reach my magic, and when I came to, I found myself drenched and shivering in a nearby forest.
It became my escape from a lifetime of misery.
I became adept at stealing from the markets near our house. One sidestep into the shadows, and suddenly, I could take everything and anything I wanted from the market stalls. I stole to eat. I stole to survive. I stole because sometimes it was the only way to revenge myself upon those older brothers who liked to hit, and kick, and ambush me in dangerous places. I’d leave those treasures in their boots and other hidey holes, where they’d be found. It earned them several thrashings and nobody ever knew it was me.
When my fifth birthing day came around, I was hauled before the king. I knew who he was and that I had to please him or the money would stop being sent.
I feel the same weight of condemnation now.
Somewhere, deep in my heart, I will always be that sickly child who knows she needs to prove herself.
“Daughter.” The king’s cold black eyes lock upon me, and then they slide down my length. “You look unwell.”
“Torture does that to a body,” I rasp, and can’t stop my right fist from curling in upon itself.
He notices. He notices everything.
I’d love to say I have the wherewithal to mutter “Fuck you,” but I’m pretty sure I do nothing more than tremble as the chancellor sweeps his torch closer to me.
“Is she even in any sort of condition to do this?” The chancellor asks.
My father’s eyes harden. There is no choice. Whatever he wants of me, Imustdo.
“The other one failed, after all,” says a new voice, coming from my right.
A chill trembles through me. I cut a sharp look toward the newcomer as he strolls out of the shadows, toying with something in his hands. Black hair tumbles over a pale forehead, but where my father is wildness and aggression, Ruhle is cultured malice. Every inch of him is sleekly poised, from the gleaming leather of his body armor to the silver skull ring on his finger. His boots gleam, and there’s a joke among the court that you don’t want to get on Ruhle’s bad side, or your tongue will be the one that polishes them.
My father has sired many children.
But few survive the training camps, and those that do are the killers. I didn’t have the killing instinct—I still don’t—but Soraya did, and those were the days when she had my back.
Ruhle is the eldest of the wraith king’s children and heir apparent. He was the only wraith-born bastard who survived the training camps during his year, and some whisper there’s a reason for that. The first five to get across the finish line of the year-end challenge are allowed to live—but he was the only one who returned from the mountains.
That doesn’t mean he works alone.
No, he has his own little circle of wraiths to do his bidding. Seven of them, to be exact. And they’re all as cruel and malicious as he is.
“How was the Abyss?” he asks of me.
“Somewhat chilly. How was exile?” I return, squaring my shoulders. Drawing his attention is never wise, but cowering before him is a certain means to earn his full attention. He preys on the weak and after years of small aggressions, if I give him one good reason to believe me unable to fend him off, I’ll find him in my bedchambers one night with a knife in hand.
Ruhle’s lip curls. “It was never exile—”
“No?” I turn my full attention toward him as he prowls toward me. “Three of our brothers die, and you are sent to the watchtowers along our southern flank during winter? Perhaps it was a gift instead, a boon for our precious crown prince to learn to control his temper.”
Father hates that title.
