Queen of Destruction, page 10
part #2 of Queen of Extinction Series
If she made a potion, it would be because she had reasoned out that it was needed, not because of some weird compulsion she had no control over. If she allowed the inexplicable cravings to govern her, she would be little better than Raith.
She put the pearl down onto the bench. Its black sheen shimmered. In its depths, Raith’s beautiful face flickered. A rush of bitterness, revenge, hunger, betrayal, and exquisite pain swamped her.
While no stranger to these kinds of emotions, none of these particular ones were familiar. She clutched the bench for support, scared the weight of them would crush her. It didn’t stop wave upon wave of borrowed, agonizing pain—Raith’s pain—from washing over her. Desperate to escape, she closed her eyes to blot everything out as another wave of despair and fear hit her.
Was this really how Raith felt?
He had lost his sister—his twin—to Jorah. How much anguish had that caused him? Enough to drive his furious need for revenge that now burned in her chest? How different were Jorah and Raith, really? Trojean had killed Lila, Jorah had killed Trojean, and now Raith and Jorah both sought to kill each other in retribution. The circle of destruction never ended.
She licked her lips; they too ached, but with a different hunger. Her stomach gnawed as if she hadn’t eaten for a week and it would now consume itself.
Was that how Raith’s cravings for blood and magic left him feeling? Lightheaded, dazed, and willing to risk everything for one more hit of Magical blood? It was no wonder he behaved the way he did; his own body was torturing him.
Tears spilled, burning their way down her cheeks for him. Although determined to drink her dry, Raith had also been kind to her during the trials. He had defended her against Artemis’s abuse, as if he were no stranger to abuse himself. Maybe that little piece of him had been real.
She cried out as fire lashed across her back. Some unseen force, who knew what, snapped a whip against her flesh. Each blow was as cruel and as sharp as the words of scorn and derision the Able had heaped on her every day of her life in Ryferia.
“Raith isn’t the only one to feel pain,” she yelled as blow after blow struck her. “We all have pain. Cravings. Longings. But we deny them to be decent people.”
“Raith is an incubus. Designed by nature to hunt.” Where the silky voice came from, she didn’t know.
She shouted back, “But not my people!” Her forehead thumped down onto the bench as ugly sobs racked her. “Not my people.”
“You would cut him down like vermin?”
Through brimming eyes, she looked for the voice but saw nothing. “If he treats my people like prey, then yes, I must. He’s a parasite who cares nothing for the lives of his victims.”
“But who made you the judge and executioner? And what of Artemis and his Intelligentsia? Will you destroy them, too?”
Her body shook as more blows fell onto her back.
Trembling against the shock, she spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s the job of a queen to protect her people.”
“But you aren’t the monarch. Artemis is.” Like smoke, the words curled around her. “You can stop the pain. All of it. Let Raith be. Allow Artemis to rule. Turn away from it all. Make a life for yourself here. Woo Jorah. In time, he will replace the firebirds in his lair with paintings of your choice. It will be your gowns stuffed in his dressing rooms. Your body he craves to caress, the way he once loved Lila. Give up this foolish quest and all this can be yours.”
She slumped down onto the floor, partly to get away from the pain, and partly to escape the voice. The life it described sounded so appealing. She clawed at the flagstones. “No. I can’t. I promised I would return to Ryferia. My people expect it. I owe—”
“Nothing. You owe nothing to anyone.”
Could she believe that? If she did, would the beating really stop?
She grimaced as truth, unadulterated and raw, settled in her core. She sat up and shouted, “My, you are smart, Silver-Tongue, but in your quest to divert me, you forget that I am not defined by pain, and revenge, and bitterness, and envy.” She clambered to her feet. “Raith may be—and even Jorah—but that’s not my path to tread.” She shook her fist. “And you will not beguile me into believing otherwise. I may be free, but my people aren’t.” She thumped that fist down onto the bench, her tear-filled gaze sweeping over the burrow. “If it is a potion I need to destroy Raith, and Artemis, and the Intelligentsia, then I will brew it.” She stomped the length of the bench to the cauldron. “And if the potion doesn’t work, I will send in an executioner to do the job for me.”
She gasped at her own impassioned words.
Was that what she believed? That to use Lazuli was the right call to make? Didn’t she already writhe with guilt every time she remembered the screams of the dying sailors on the sinking Ryferian galley her seaweed had dragged to watery graves?
Or was it the Oracle influencing her thoughts?
She had killed those sailors to escape for a cause she considered noble: to free her people. She would always want to consider herself and her cause a noble one, but when did nobility cease to be a virtue, only to become foolishness?
War was bloody and would cost the lives of thousands. The potion was an unknown. How would she even feed it to Raith? Assuming it was meant for him. Perhaps Zandor had been right all along and a quick, clean kill by a skilled assassin was the kindest way she could rid the world of the threat Raith posed.
She shouted out, “Yes! I will even use Lazuli if I must.”
By the time she reached the cauldron, the pain had gone. She wondered if it had even been real. She blew out a long breath to calm her pounding heart, then brushed the tears from her face. She may have agreed to use Lazuli, but first she had to try the potion.
The only ingredient she had was the pearl. Force of habit made her glance up at the ceiling, where her rack of dried herbs hung.
She bit her lip; it wasn’t there. She snapped at the voice, “So what am I supposed to use?”
No reply.
“Not very helpful, are you?” she yelled to the ether. “Or do you only like tormenting people?”
“Perhaps we need to crush it.”
She spun. Jorah had appeared from nowhere. Blond hair, piercing blue eyes, he was as handsome and powerful as always. He leaned with one hip against the bench. Thinking him a hallucination—the Oracle was capable of any cruel device—she touched his arm. It was as warm and as real as she was. For some reason, the hateful creature had decided Jorah needed to be here for this torment, too.
Face contorted with concern, he asked, “Are you alright? What happened?”
She guessed she looked terrible. Also, Jorah seemed to have no idea what had just happened. “The Oracle and I had a few disagreements. I’m hoping it knows that I’ve won.”
“Of course you have.” Jorah brushed a lock of hair off her sweaty forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “But remember, it’s not called Silver-Tongued for nothing.”
At his touch, she smiled her relief to have him here. “I’m certainly getting the picture.” She turned to find the pearl. “You think we should crush it because that’s what we must do to Raith?”
It had gone.
The air sagged out of her. “Jorah—”
“Can you see your equipment?” Jorah interrupted. “Because I can see ingredients, but nothing else.”
“Only the Oracle would do something so—” She bit off the words. Lamenting helped no one. “You’ve got the pearl?”
“It’s right there where you left it.”
“Of course it is.” She stalked to her equipment cupboard and pulled out her favorite pestle and mortar. Last time she’d carried it, she had been weak and puny; now the heavy stone weighed next to nothing. The blessing of being away from the Guardians—one she was determined to share with her Infirm people. She plunked it down on the table. “Drop the pearl in there and I’ll mash it up.”
Jorah tilted his hand and she heard a clink of stone on stone. She smashed her pestle down into the mortar.
It grazed off the top of the unseen pearl.
“Not a scratch,” Jorah said, peering at the bench where the mortar sat.
“Hmm…Not very helpful,” she said, largely for the Oracle’s benefit. To Jorah, she said, “Maybe you need to try.”
“I can’t even see the pestle.”
“Give me your hand and I’ll guide it.”
Jorah offered her his beautiful, tanned hand. She placed it on the rounded end of the pestle, then laid her own hand over the top of it. “Let’s grind.”
He laughed self-consciously. “This feels weird.”
It did.
She smiled at him. “Put some muscle in it, dragon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
But even though Jorah’s bulging biceps flexed enticingly as he worked the invisible—to him—pestle, she could still feel the pearl—invisible to her—rolling under her tool.
Finally, Jorah stopped. “Not working, my nymph. We need another plan. Another ingredient, maybe.”
Aurora looked blank. “Your department.”
“Indeed.” He grimaced, then wriggled, grunting as if in pain. It was a sight most odd in a dragon. He moaned, “Maleficent’s butt, I hate this Oracle.”
“Get in line. There’s a queue.”
Finally, he scratched his side and then held out his hand. She looked at his empty palm and guessed he held an ingredient of some kind.
“One of my scales,” Jorah said. “Isn’t it enough that the bastard has a silver tongue, does it have to be long-fingered, too?”
Aurora couldn’t stop her laughter. “It pickpocketed you?”
“Not just any pocket. The one under my skin. Hurt like hell, too.” He snorted. “Pain I would never have felt with my magic.” He touched her cheek with a gentle finger. “My nymph, I’m developing a far greater appreciation of what you went through in Ryferia.”
“Good, because I wasn’t the only one. My people are still suffering. And many of them don’t have magic, and never will. They need love and acceptance, too, if we are ever to have peace.”
Jorah’s jaw hardened. “The Untalented have done nothing good to the Magical in Ryferia.”
“And the Magical once enslaved the Untalented in Ryferia. I think we can call it quits, Jorah. The debts have been squared. All wrongs need to be put right if we are to build a world I would want my children to grow up in.”
“That will be a hard sell, Aurora. No one will buy it.”
She refused to accept that. Her chin tilted defiantly. “It would help if you at least got on board. If we don’t lead the way, no one will follow. You have unparalleled power and authority in Warrendyte—that dome didn’t break for nothing, you know. And I will finally have some credibility when we win in Ryferia. We can change the world.”
Jorah’s intense blue eyes watched her with icy focus. She was about to start squirming like a mouse hunted by an eagle, when he said, “I am willing to talk with the Untalented.”
A small concession when said in words, but a giant leap forward for the dragon who had seen his mother and sisters ravaged and then slaughtered by Nethric’s soldiers in Ryferia.
She bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you. Now we need to finish this potion.” She touched the mortar, and then spoke her mind, not caring—much—what he thought of her radical decision. “If we can’t brew it, we need to send in Lazuli.”
He gave a decisive nod. “Lazuli is looking more and more attractive.”
She heaved a sigh of relief that she didn’t have to argue with him to get him to agree. “So…our potion. A scale makes sense. You’re the dragon everyone keeps telling me will destroy Raith.” She clinked the pestle against the mortar. “Toss it in. Let’s see a dragon crush an incubus.”
Jorah gave another of his wry smiles. “Don’t hold your breath.” But, probably guided by the pearl, he tipped his hand into the mortar.
Another clink, this time of steel on stone, was her only clue that the scale and pearl had met.
She held out her hand for his. “Together again?”
“Is there any other way, my nymph?”
She flushed at the softness in his voice and was glad to lose herself in placing his hand down onto the pestle. His skin was warm under hers as they ground together.
Nothing happened.
Sweat beaded her temples and then streamed down her face, and still they ground the scale and the pearl together.
“This is hopeless,” Jorah finally said.
Aurora slumped against the bench. “We’re missing something. Is there another ingredient?”
Jorah looked up and down the bench. “Nothing.”
“You know alchemy as well as I do. There has to be something. A catalyst we haven’t thought of.”
“Maybe you just need a cat.” Peckle jumped up onto the table next to the mortar. He peered disdainfully into its depths. “That will never work.”
Jorah’s eyes narrowed. “I think we’ve figured that. The dragon’s and the dryad’s patience has worn thin. Now would be a good time to share what you know.”
Peckle blinked a couple of times. “It’s not my secret to tell.”
“You want to skin him,” she asked Jorah, “or should I?”
But Jorah wasn’t listening, if his startled eyes and dangling jaw were any indicator. She squealed as he grabbed her, tossed her behind him, and backed away from the bench. Tired of being protected, she lunged past him.
And then she saw her—a woman more beautiful, and more brutal in that beauty, than Aurora had ever seen hovered in the air above the bench on iridescent bat wings twice the size of her body. Dressed in nothing but red-and-black molten lava, she canted her head, clinking her icicle hair. Her eyes swirled a kaleidoscope of colors, and a small, brutal smile played on her crimson lips.
Aurora’s hands slipped down her sides. She squeaked out, “W-who are you?”
“Watch.” The strange visitor’s voice cracked like a whip.
Transfixed, Aurora leaned in. Jorah also took a step closer. Only Peckle seemed unconcerned. He eyed the woman with his usual disdain, suggesting that he wasn’t surprised by her appearance.
The woman raised both her hands, one snow white and the other nut brown, into the air.
A snap of fire.
Aurora gasped as a familiar crown dropped from the roof of the burrow and landed on the woman’s hand. It was made of iron and jet, with spikes that rose like spindles. The last time she’d seen that crown, it had sat on Lazard’s brow. Now Artemis claimed it. If her people were to be free, she had to wrench it from his head.
The woman fixed Aurora with those disconcerting, swirling eyes.
Mesmerizing as Raith’s had been, it took all her wits not lose herself in them. Fighting for control, she said, “You have something to say to me?”
The stranger’s laughter splintered the air. “My, what a beauty you are.” Her icy head tilted. “Mind well, Princess Aurora.” She held out the crown. “To claim this and to destroy the incubus, you must seek one single drop of Maleficent’s blood.” The woman swept one of her hands out from under the crown and waved it at the mortar. “Only then will your potion brew. Only then will you be queen.”
Aurora opened her mouth to tumble out a thousand questions, but a loud poof and a flash of brilliant white light cut her short.
The woman had gone.
It took a moment for Jorah’s eyes to recover from the lightning flash that had swallowed the mysterious woman. He had a strong inkling who she was, but logic said it was impossible. That woman—the goddess who had created his kind, as well as every other Magical creature in existence—had not been seen or heard from for generations. Certainly not since he’d been born. Many didn’t believe in her existence.
“Who was that?” Aurora’s voice sounded strangled and her face had blanched.
Jorah couldn’t resist wrapping his arm around her. It didn’t surprise him when she leaned into him, shaking. He drew comfort from her, too.
The woman’s message had not been encouraging.
“I have a few ideas,” he said mumbled into her wild hair. He released her and stepped away. “But first I need to skin the cat”—he glared at Peckle—“unless he tells us everything he knows.”
Legs like sticks, Peckle sprang straight up into the air. “You will do no such thing, dragon.”
“I’m with Jorah on this, Peckle,” Aurora said sharply when the cat landed back on the bench with every hair standing. “No more holding back, or else.”
“Or else you’ll skin me?” Peckle said disdainfully. A feline snort followed. “Well, that beats you laughing at me. Which is what I fear will happen when I tell you what you want to know.”
Jorah suppressed a smile when Aurora softened visibly. “No one will laugh at you.”
His nymph was sometimes too kindhearted for her own good. A trait too often scorned and cast down, mistaken for weakness. If she managed it, it would serve her well as queen.
Peckle glared at him. “Dragon?”
Jorah touched his hand to his heart, following Aurora’s lead. “On my honor.”
Peckle took an annoying moment to wash his ears. “As you know, Jorah, Niing pleaded with me to stay in Ryferia with him after the war. I didn’t want to leave the old fool alone, so I agreed. But I very soon realized I’d made a mistake and I was desperate to escape. Eventually, I found a broken Guardian. I was leaving—” His tail flicked. “Tell Niing and I will never forgive you.” Two sharp eyes skewered Jorah.
Again, he tapped his heart with two fingers. “Not a word.”
Peckle’s head turned to Aurora. “Blurt it out to Niing, and I will skin you!”
Aurora bristled. “Don’t try me, cat.”
For a long moment, Peckle stared at Aurora, who held his gaze in a private battle of wills.
Finally, the cat blinked. “I was a day’s run from the foul constructs when she came.” Jorah guessed he referred to their visitor. “She told me her name: Maleficent. It was she who came today. The goddess herself.”
Jorah’s stomach knotted at Peckle’s confirmation of his suspicions.
