Ivy & Bone, page 10
HUNT
CYRUS
A white glow burned against Cyrus’s eyes. The orb of a wayward soul floated before him, capturing his attention. This soul was . . . different. He could sense power emanating from it, unlike the souls of most mortals. A witch perhaps?
Gods, he was so sick of witches.
But that wasn’t it . . . This soul was untethered. Unbound. Instead of being linked to the Underworld, as most souls were, this one was free.
And it was dying.
Well, not so much dying, as fading. Souls were already dead. But their essence, their aura, continued to live on after their mortal death. This one, however, had an aura as feeble as a feather.
“What happened to you?” Cyrus murmured.
A cry resonated from the orb, burning through Cyrus’s skull until his ears throbbed. He groaned, shutting his eyes against the tormented wail, the screams of anguish . . .
Cyrus’s eyes flew open. Light streamed in through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft morning glow. He blinked, his mind strangely muddled. His limbs felt stiff and awkward. He shifted, then froze.
Prue lay atop him, her head resting against his chest, her curly hair sprawled around them both. Her steady, slow breaths indicated she was still asleep.
Oh, gods. Not only had Cyrus actually slept, but he had slept with Prue. Like this. Like lovers.
Uncertain if he should be mortified or furious, he carefully extricated himself from her embrace. His skin felt warm and sticky, and he wanted nothing more than to cleanse himself. How could this have happened? He was an immortal. He wasn’t supposed to need things like sleep or sustenance. This wretched place must have been rubbing off on him.
Cyrus tried moving as gently as possible so as not to wake the witch—though he had no idea why—but his efforts were in vain. She moaned slightly in her sleep, eliciting a coil of heat in Cyrus’s belly. He glanced down at his nakedness and swore at the stiff member that Prue would certainly taunt. He snatched his trousers and hoisted them up just as she rubbed her eyes and squinted at him.
“Mona?” Her voice was a croak, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was raspy and deeper than her usual timbre. Then, her eyes widened and she sat bolt upright. “Mona!”
Cyrus stared at her, frowning as she brushed strands of hair out of her face. Her shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths as awareness settled in her expression. “It was . . . a dream. Just a dream.” She sagged backwards with a deep exhale, then turned to scrutinize Cyrus. “You’re awake.”
“Astute observation,” he said dryly, while fetching his shirt. Just before donning it, he sniffed it and recoiled. “That’s awful.”
“I know.” Prue yawned and sat up. “That’s why we’ll be stocking up on supplies while we’re here. We need more than just one outfit.”
“Well, hopefully we can get something more fitting. These peasant clothes itch like hell.”
“You’re such a snob.”
“I’m a god.”
“Are you?” She pressed a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “I had no idea.”
Cyrus just shook his head, his brain too muddled to manage a snarky reply. He finished buttoning his trousers and noticed Prue staring at the window, her gaze solemn and distant. She gnawed on her lower lip, her expression troubled.
Cyrus wanted to ask what was wrong, but he worried he would seem affectionate if he did so. But it wasn’t affection that urged him; it was burning curiosity. A dark, haunted look shadowed her gaze. Her mindless blathering about her sister and a bad dream made him wonder if his dream had actually been real. Had something happened last night? Had that strange orb visited them both?
Had it been Mona?
Prue blinked, suddenly waking from her stupor as she caught Cyrus staring at her. “I—” She broke off, as if changing her mind about speaking.
“What is it?” Cyrus tried to put as much softness in his voice as he could muster.
Prue took a breath, paused, and then tried again. “Is something . . . wrong in the Underworld?”
Cyrus went perfectly still, though his chest thrummed in response. His throat closed, and he couldn’t speak or breathe for a moment. After swallowing hard, he managed, “What makes you say that?”
Prue bit her lip again and dropped her gaze.
Cyrus tried another approach. He took a step closer to the bed and dropped to his knees so they were at eye level. “Prue, that’s my home. If you know something, I beg of you to tell me.” Did it have to do with Aidoneus poisoning Acheron? Was it worse? What else were his father and brothers up to?
He thought of Vasileios, his oldest brother—the one he had stolen the throne from. If anyone had a right to hate Cyrus, it was Vasileios. How far would he go to take his revenge on Cyrus?
Prue stared at him, her eyes shining. Shock crossed her face as she glanced over him, kneeling before her. “You’re . . . begging me?” A touch of amusement filled her voice.
Cyrus suppressed a groan. Of course she would take this moment to tease him. “It’s my home,” he said again.
Prue’s humor faded, and she nodded in understanding. Cyrus knew she thought of her own village being terrorized by ghosts. Certainly a sobering thought. With a deep breath, Prue said, “My sister’s ghost visited me last night. In a dream.”
Cyrus’s skin prickled, and an echo of his magic pulsed inside him as if responding to the knowledge that a spirit had indeed been here. A million questions raced through his mind, but he forced himself to ask, “What did she look like?”
“A transparent version of my sister.” Prue’s voice sounded incredulous.
Of course. Cyrus forgot that to mere mortals, spirits looked different. To him, they were orbs. But they could manifest themselves into different forms depending on the sight of the beholder. “And . . . did she do or say anything?”
Prue wet her lips and dropped her gaze, wringing her hands together on the bed. But she didn’t answer.
Cyrus tried a different question. “Prue, has she visited you before?”
Slowly, Prue nodded.
Shit. “How long? How long has this been happening?”
Prue looked up at the alarm in his voice. “I—I don’t know. A few weeks? Maybe a month?”
Cyrus ran a hand through his hair, his fingers grazing over his horns. Gods, this was bad. This was very bad.
“What?” Prue demanded. “Cyrus, what does this mean?”
“It means something is wrong with the Underworld. If your sister’s spirit is still here, then she didn’t pass over as she should have. Either something is broken in the rivers of Hell, or . . . something is wrong with your sister’s soul.” He didn’t want to tell her what he knew—that Acheron was already broken, if not destroyed. Was that why Mona’s spirit was visiting Prue? Because of what Aidoneus had done?
Was this Cyrus’s fault? If his father hadn’t been trying to overthrow him, this wouldn’t have happened.
Prue jumped to her feet, her hair wild and massive around her head. Her eyes grew wide, and her face drained of color. “W-what? My sister’s soul? What does that mean? How do we fix it? I—I—”
Her face crumpled, and Cyrus couldn’t stop himself. He closed the distance between them, then faltered. What was he about to do? Embrace her? The thought was absurd. Already half-committed to the idea, he settled with placing his hands on her shoulders instead, which shook with trembling sobs. This fierce, stubborn, powerful witch seemed broken before him, and he couldn’t stand it. He would much prefer she yell or throw insults at him. But not this. His insides twisted at the sight of her. His throat tightened, his chest constricting as if he couldn’t breathe.
Why did he feel like this? Perhaps he was simply horrified by her pathetic show of weakness. Disgusted, really. That was all. That was why he wanted to put a stop to it. Nothing more.
His thumbs traced circles along her shoulders, the motion almost unconscious, as he said softly, “We will fix this. We are heading to the gate already. We can’t do anything about it in this realm, but once we are there, we can fix this. I promise.”
Prue covered her face with her hands and wept further. Between sobs, she whispered, “She s-said . . . the Underworld is d-dying. And she’s . . . fading.”
Panic welled in Cyrus’s chest. His home was dying? “What else did she say?”
Quickly, Prue filled him in on all her sister had spoken the night before, though it hadn’t been much. But Cyrus’s attention snagged on one thing: they are toying with forces that should not be meddled with. His brothers were indeed destroying their home just to punish Cyrus. They were willing to go that far.
Evander, the brother closest to Cyrus, would never do anything to harm the Underworld. Romanos wouldn’t, either. They were both far too reasonable for that.
But the others? With the strength of Aidoneus and the wrath of Vasileios—yes, they certainly could. A force like that could easily tear apart the Underworld.
Prue lowered her hands, her face streaming with tears as she looked at him. “What’s going on? What are your brothers doing?”
Cyrus closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. “They poisoned the river Acheron. It was the one thing linking me to the Underworld. They hope to sever me completely from my home. But . . . in the process, the river of souls is dying.”
Prue’s mouth fell open. “So . . . you can’t get back home?” She took a step back from him. “Have you been lying to me this whole time? We’re here traveling together, and you can’t even get in to the Underworld?”
“No, no,” Cyrus said hastily. “I can still get in, I just . . . may not be able to stay for long. The Book of Eyes must remain in the mortal realm. And with the river poisoned, that book is now the strongest anchor attached to me. I will be pulled to the mortal realm the instant I set foot in the Underworld. But I will fix this, Prue. I will find a way to tether myself to the rivers again.” He shook his head. “I haven’t lied to you. You know I can’t.”
Prue swallowed and drew in a shuddering breath. “All right.” She blinked, awareness crossing her features. She took in his arms, still outstretched as if to grasp her shoulders again. Then she glanced down at herself and took another step back.
Cyrus abruptly dropped his arms, realizing what she had: he had touched her. He had comforted her. Not a drop of animosity between them. What the hell was the matter with him?
Cyrus cleared his throat and rubbed his jaw. “Right. Well. We should go get those supplies, then.”
“Yes,” Prue said quickly. Too quickly. She snatched her dress from the floor and disappeared into the bathing chamber, leaving Cyrus feeling like a damned fool.
Voula City was just as tiresome during the day as it was at night. Even with the morning sun illuminating the rise of buildings around them, it didn’t erase the stink of the passersby or the cramped feeling of walking alongside thousands of people on the street. Gods, Cyrus missed his isolated domain in the Underworld.
Prue kept a swift pace as if hoping to lose him in the crowd. Cyrus got the feeling she was embarrassed by what had happened in their room, though he wasn’t even sure what had happened. They’d shared a bed, but somehow she was more mortified that he had comforted her than anything else. Then again, he couldn’t blame her. He was a monster. Practically a demon in her eyes. Even if he was a prince where he came from, the horns and the overall frightening facade he wore would be enough to make anyone recoil.
It only made him harden his resolve. She might have technically been his wife, but he didn’t care what she thought. Yes, it would have been easier to woo her if she didn’t see him as something revolting, but that was only a minor obstacle. All he needed was one moment of weakness, one night with too much wine and seduction . . . and her power would be his.
Then, he would get back through the gate without issue. He just knew that with her power, he would be unstoppable. Never mind what his father and brothers were doing to his realm. Never mind that he was no longer tethered to Acheron. Nothing would stop him. Nothing.
Not even Vasileios and his petty idea of vengeance. Cyrus could silence him for good, ending him from existence so he would never be a threat again.
Once they reached a men’s clothing shop, Prue pressed several coins into Cyrus’s hands. She snatched his wrist before he walked off.
“I’m not giving you any more than this, all right? Find yourself some decent clothes, but nothing too extravagant.” She raised her eyebrows as if knowing he planned to buy the finest suit he could find.
“You know, I could just frighten the shit out of the shop owner to coerce him into giving me what I want.” He offered a roguish grin.
Prue rolled her eyes. “Be inconspicuous, remember? Do you really want the mortals coming after you?”
“Let them try.”
“Yes, and it will make our journey even slower if the authorities are searching for us.” She fixed a stern gaze on him.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, half his fingers still curled over the coins she gave him. “I’ll be the picture of civility.”
She gave him a doubtful look before turning and leaving for the dress shop across the street. Cyrus watched her for a moment, the way her curls bobbed behind her with each stride. He wasn’t sure why he was so fixated on her departure. After a moment, he shook his head and strode into the shop.
An hour later, he emerged, grumbling at the persistence of the shop attendants trying to squeeze every last coin from him. It was a miracle he escaped with a suit and two tunics without shedding any blood.
He scanned the crowd for Prue. Something tugged within him, and he groaned, clutching at his chest. Ignoring the odd looks of the passersby, he glanced around more urgently. Where was Prue?
The pull inside him yanked more insistently, drawing him forward a few steps. He staggered, and several women in fine dresses gasped loudly at his jerky movements.
Cyrus straightened, alarm pulsing through him. Something was wrong.
Without another thought, he sprinted forward, shoving past the clueless mortals who kept getting in his way. He reached the dress shop, but that unknown thing tugged him onward, past the shop and toward the alley where the two buildings met. He didn’t hesitate; didn’t even question this feeling inside him. He darted into the alley to find a hooded figure slashing daggers at Prue, who wielded vines from her fingers as if spinning string. Her vines wrapped around the man’s ankles, holding him in place while she shoved her elbow into his gut, then stomped on his foot.
Cyrus’s eyebrows lifted. Well, at least she wasn’t completely helpless.
But the man spun, ducking to avoid another one of her jabs. A few of the vines at his feet tore with his movement, and he slid his foot under Prue’s legs, tripping her. She came crashing down, and a pallet of soft grass rose up from the ground to soften her fall. The daggers glinted in the sunlight as the man’s fingers spun with finesse and skill. Regardless of the power of Prue’s magic, she lacked the fighting skills to best him.
Dropping his bags, Cyrus surged forward, tackling the man from behind. The assailant grunted as Cyrus held him in a chokehold. Prue’s knee connected with the attacker’s groin, but he didn’t even flinch.
Was this thing even a man at all? Unless . . .
Just as Cyrus put the pieces together, shadows bled from the ground, snaking toward Prue.
“Prue!” Cyrus shouted, but it was too late. The inky blackness reached her toes, and she fell to her knees with an anguished scream. The darkness climbed up her foot, trying to claim the rest of her body.
Cyrus knew this darkness well. It would eat at her flesh and bones until it had consumed her entirely.
“My magic!” Cyrus bellowed. The man wriggled, trying to get free, but Cyrus held fast. “Give it to me, Prue!”
When she continued to do nothing but scream, Cyrus roared, “Now!”
“It’s yours!” she screamed. “Take it! Just take it!”
Cyrus swore. How could she give him his magic back if she wasn’t even coherent enough to use her own? But, miraculously, fire swelled in his chest as if responding to her words. And with his power came something . . . else. A roar of anger and resentment rumbled in Cyrus’s mind, making his vision go dark for the briefest of moments.
Cyrus didn’t know how, but he somehow knew it was his death magic. His own powers were raging against him, as if angry they had been restrained for too long.
What in all the realms of Hell was going on? Since when did his magic have a mind of its own?
But he didn’t have time to focus on it. Mercifully, his vision cleared, and he snapped into action. He shoved the assailant forward before unleashing his dark flames on him. Fire pooled from his hands like water, smothering the attacker’s body. A feral growl, followed by a shrill scream, filled the air as Cyrus’s magic scorched the man. Cyrus bared his teeth, reveling in the hungry roar growing inside him with each push of his flame. The magic yearned to be let out, to burn this man to a crisp until he was nothing more than a smoking husk.
Prue let out a cry of anguish, snapping Cyrus out of his vengeful haze. He halted his attack on the man, who whimpered feebly in response, and hurried over to Prue. The shadows had crept past her ankle and were now climbing up her shin. She clutched her leg, clawing at the darkness as if she could pry it off her skin by force, but Cyrus knew it was impossible.
Only one thing could chase away the darkness: Cyrus’s fire.
Cyrus shot a jet of black flame straight at Prue’s foot. She screamed again, her face contorting with agony and pain. Tears streamed down her face. But, just as he expected, the shadows receded, repelled by Cyrus’s magic.
As soon as the darkness disappeared, Cyrus was inspecting her foot, his movements slow and gentle so as not to exacerbate the injury. He hadn’t sent a full blast of power, so, thankfully, her skin was still intact. Just singed. It would heal.
“Are you all right?” he murmured, looking into her eyes to ensure the shadows hadn’t claimed her elsewhere.
Prue didn’t answer. Her face was wet from crying, and she hissed a breath through her teeth. Though her eyes swam with tears, they drilled into him with all the force of her fury.
