CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T
he breath was soft against my cheek.
I felt that first, before anything else came back to me. That steady,
soothing rhythm, raising goosebumps at the back of my neck.
Nice, I thought, dreamily. It’s nice.
The water was still warm. I’d sunk down as I slept, so it came up past my shoulders. I had settled deep against Asar’s body—his long arm folded around me, his chin lowered against the crook between my throat and shoulder, his torso molded to the curvature of my back.
My exhausted mind pieced these circumstances together far too slowly.
I opened my eyes.
What really made the situation sink in was the sight before me: my toes pressed to the lip of the copper tub, with Asar’s long, elegant feet emerging from the water on either side of them. I wasn’t sure why we were barefoot. Maybe Luce had dragged our boots off.
It felt indecent to be staring at the Wraith Warden’s feet.
I was in a bathtub with the Wraith Warden.
Gods fucking help me.
Slowly—so, so slowly—I shifted my head to look at him. I was close enough to count the drops of liquid shimmering in his eyelashes. Moisture dotted his skin, painting a sheen over his tan cheeks that emphasized the angle of his cheekbones.
His scars glistened beneath the lantern light. I hadn’t noticed before, but there were hints of green and blue in the deepest ridges, shifting as if an aurora were hiding under his skin. Awake, his face was always hard with concentration or disapproval, but now, his expression was soft, mouth still, brow smooth. I felt like I was witnessing a rare natural phenomena.
He was, I had to admit, very pretty, even by vampire standards. No, more than pretty. His features begged to be immortalized in stone or paint. Before the scars, he must have caught plenty of attention.
Or maybe not, since he was apparently off doing whatever one had to do to earn a title like “the Wraith Warden” at that time. Probably didn’t leave a lot of room for parties and flirtation.
Still, the thought of Asar—grumpy, eternally put-out Asar—swanning around ballrooms with a legion of admirers was so funny that a snort escaped my lips.
His eyes opened.
The awkward giggle died.
He didn’t move. His brown eye seemed darker than ever here, endless black, like the oldest vampire blood. His scarred one shone like a stone freshly polished, galaxies of silver and green and gold in its depths. Every time I’d looked at Asar, that eye had always held a tempest. Now, it was the mists on a winter dawn. Quiet.
He didn’t blink. Just stared at me, so intently that he might have been counting the freckles on my face or the threads of gold in my irises. It was the kind of stare that made you stop breathing. The kind of stare that made you feel like your clothes were being peeled off.
Then a wrinkle slowly etched itself between his eyebrows.
“Iliae,” he said slowly, “why are you on top of me?”
There were probably many people who would be happy to be asking that question, but Asar was not one of them.
A wave of long-overdue self-consciousness crashed over me. He tried to push himself upright, and I stood too fast, sending a waterfall of silver over the edge of the tub.
“I saved your life,” I said. “Again. You should be more appreciative.”
Fine, the truth was, I wasn’t sure what I’d saved Asar from or how I’d done it.
But I didn’t need to know those things to wield it over him.
Asar stepped out of the tub and turned away. He pushed wet hair away from his face like he was trying to forcibly clear the remaining fog from his head. His shirt, once white and now mauve from the blood and whatever had been in the tub, clung to his body, practically transparent. I could see the shape of his scars underneath the fabric, extending all the way down the left half of his body over lean swells of muscle.
He returned, two towels in hand. He paused awkwardly, eyes flicking down for a moment too long. A sudden awareness of the cold air had me looking down at myself and realizing that my own clothes did little more to hide my body than his
did.
Sun take me.
I snatched a towel from him and wrapped it around myself.
“Where are we? What is this? What happened at the door? Why were the—”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Iliae, please. If you want me to answer, you’ll have to let me.”
I shut my mouth. Fine. One question at a time.
“We’re in one of my rooms,” he said.
I took in our surroundings again—the oddly lived-in, comfortable bedchamber
beyond the half-ajar door.
“Your rooms?”
“I’ve lived in Morthryn for a long time. I’ve carved out little sanctuaries for myself here and there.”
Sanctuaries. What an odd word to apply to Morthryn. Yet, I had to admit, this room felt like a sanctuary—like someone had lovingly curated it. This alone brought to mind so many other questions. Had he traveled these paths before, then?
Why?
But instead, I looked down at the liquid around my knees—all those metallic colors. “And this?”
“It’s designed to wash away the influence of the dead. They’re starving for life.
When they touch you, they leach it from you bit by bit. The death can cling to you even after they let go.”
I was, despite myself, fascinated. “This bathtub washes away death?”
“The potion washes away death,” Asar corrected. “The bathtub is just a bathtub.”
I wanted to be offended by how condescending that answer was, but the fog in my head had cleared enough for the memories to come rushing back. I closed my eyes against the too-vivid image of Eomin’s face.
I let out a shaky breath.
“What happened out there? At the door?”
Asar’s face went grim. The tempest in that left eye returned. He turned around and stepped behind a folding screen in the corner, the sounds of rustling wet fabric punctuating his words.
“I knew that we’d earn some… followers once we started our journey. The dead are attracted to the living, and they don’t get to see them often. But they never should have been able to broach that.” The words were sharp, a scolding that seemed to be directed more toward himself than me.
“Your wards are breaking,” I said.
Asar’s head poked out from around the screen, eyes narrowed, like a teacher expecting to catch a cheating student.
I smiled brightly. I enjoyed when I knew more than he expected me to.
“Priestess, remember?”
He stepped out from behind the screen, though he kept his body angled away from me as he buttoned up a dry shirt.
“They aren’t my wards. They’re Alarus’s wards. And everything decays after two thousand years. Even death itself. The Sanctums have gotten unstable. Some souls make it through the Descent into the underworld, as they should. But some aren’t able to pass and remain trapped in the Sanctums. They put pressure on the gates that never used to exist.”
I hoped I misunderstood Asar, because if I hadn’t, it meant that my friend had languished that way for decades, stuck only a fraction of the way through his journey to true death. I heard his voice in the back of my head with renewed horror: Help me, Mische. Take me home.
Saliva pooled over my tongue, and for a horrible moment, I thought I might actually vomit. But I was grateful that Asar didn’t seem to notice my reaction.
“They simply require more maintenance,” he said. “Still, I never let the gates fall. Never.”
I didn’t need Asar to explain to me what broken gates would mean. Veils like those separated many different realms in our world, and they had been designed by the gods to remain in careful balance. If there was no boundary between life and death, the paths to the underworld would collapse entirely.
“You almost did tonight,” I said.
Asar let out a breath through his teeth. “It was too close,” he muttered. “It’s getting harder. All of it, it’s…”
His voice trailed off as he turned back to me. I was certain he was about to thank me for my help, and I looked forward to hearing it. But instead, his eyes lowered—to the several inches of my wrist visible under my wet shirt. To the fresh burns over it.
His face hardened. “I told you to stop being so careless with that.”
Gods above. Here I was thinking I’d get an actual thank you.
“You’d rather I just let the dead take you?” I said. “Magic has a cost. You of all people must know that.”
An odd expression flickered over his face, clouds churning in his scarred eye.
“You’re right. I do know.” He crossed the room in three long strides, and seized my hand before I could move, twisting it to reveal the seeping wounds. “And that’s how I know that this is a ridiculous risk. You’re a Shadowborn. Use the gifts you’re made for instead of flaying yourself for the ones you’re not.”
You’re a Shadowborn.
Those three words struck me across the face. I lurched back with the force of them, but his grip on my wrist was strong.
No one had ever called me that before.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m a Dawndrinker. I’m—”
“You are a vampire, Iliae. Not just a vampire, but one created by one of the most powerful bloodlines in Obitraes. Call yourself whatever you want, but your
stubbornness isn’t worth your life.”
“Stubbornness?”
My hurt curdled to anger.
“I didn’t choose this,” I spat. “I didn’t want this. I was nineteen years old when your brother Turned me and then left me to die in the dirt. Don’t try to tell me that it’s some kind of gift that I’m supposed to embrace. I lost everything that night. I lost—”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I saw a young man with half his face ripped up. I saw a woman with her throat torn out and just how thirsty the dust was for her blood.
I drew in a long breath and let it out. “Whatever magic I have from—from him, prince or not, I don’t want it,” I said. “I wield the magic of Atroxus. Not Nyaxia. I have my faith, and I have the love of my god. That’s all I need.”
Asar was silent for a long moment, gaze lowering. His thumb traced the scar on the swell of my palm. I hated that they now extended to my hands, where my sleeves could no longer cover them.
“Right. Looks like love,” he muttered bitterly.
The shadows between our skin quivered. The necrotic power I tried to pretend wasn’t within me rose beneath his touch, pushing up against the surface. I wished he would let me go. I wished I would pull away. Neither happened.
“Malach had no respect for the world around him,” he said. “He was selfish, and he was entitled, and he didn’t know how to find pleasure in anything but exerting power over weaker beings. I’m glad he’s dead, and I’m glad that you were the one who killed him. Perhaps it makes my cynical heart believe that there’s some justice in the world.”
Justice. That was one word to describe his body sliding down the wall, my sword staked in his chest. Secretly, I treasured that final, shocked look on his face.
Like he was seeing me for the first time.
“I believe you when you say that you didn’t want this power,” he said. “But it’s not my brother’s anymore. It’s yours. And you can’t tell me that you don’t feel how strong it is. Because…” A wrinkle etched between his brows—curiosity, confusion, or both. “Because I feel it.”
He slid his hand around so his palm hovered over mine. The darkness between our hands pulled like spider’s silk. Unwelcome pleasure skittered up my spine.
I wanted to pull away, shut it down, pretend it didn’t exist. But my curiosity was too powerful to hold back now that he had acknowledged it, too.
“Why does it feel… like that?” I asked.
He hesitated before he answered. “My brother Turned you. You and I would share some of the connection you would have with him because of it.”
He presented this as fact, but I could hear his uncertainty.
“But he was only your half brother,” I said. “And I felt it with your sister and your father, but not so strongly. Even with Malach…”
I remembered Lilith and Vale’s wedding in the House of Night. I had seen Malach across the room, and I had just known. Before then, I didn’t even know who my maker was. I didn’t remember his face. But one look at him, and I felt it. A connection that bolted straight through my black-blooded heart.
Raihn used to talk about how much he hated that—how no matter how much you despised the one who Turned you, you still had an intimate bond with them. It deepened the violation, extending it from a moment to a lifetime. The ghost of their lips would always remain on your throat.
That was exactly how it had felt.
But this, with Asar, was different. It felt more like my blood was answering a mutual call rather than bowing in subservience. Still, it reminded me far too much of things I preferred not to think about.
I settled on, “It’s just… different.”
Asar’s frown of thought deepened.
“A connection, no matter how biological, is only worth the attention one gives it,” he said. “Many factors could contribute. But regardless of the cause, what you did at the gate tonight… I’ve been studying magic for a very long time. I know how to recognize someone who has worked hard to perfect their craft. The magic may be different, but the techniques still apply.”
He spoke awkwardly, like he was unaccustomed to giving compliments.
I couldn’t help it. I smiled.
“That’s actually nice of you, Warden.”
He scowled. “I’m stating a fact, not stroking your ego, Dawndrinker.”
Still nice.
“Learn how to utilize what was given to you,” he said. “You could become just as powerful as Malach was. More, maybe, because you’re probably willing to work harder at it than he was. The Descent will be dangerous. You can’t afford not to use
the tools you have. And—”
He hesitated.
“And the gates are growing harder for me to close by myself. I could use… assistance.”
My brows lifted. “You’re asking for help.”
This was much more comfortable territory for me. It was a little embarrassing, actually, just how much my heart jumped at it, like a Pythoraseed addict reaching for their next smoke. I knew how to help people. It was my most comfortable role.
Asar scowled, but he didn’t correct me.
“What about Elias?” I asked. “He’s Shadowborn.”
Asar’s lip curled, as if he’d just been forced to eat something rancid. It was an excellent expression, and I appreciated it.
“Elias is the type who’s better off swinging swords around,” he said, leaving no doubt it was a grave insult. But I had a feeling there were plenty of other reasons why Asar did not want to show Elias those broken gates.
The sensation of Asar’s skin near mine, his magic calling to me, grew too distracting. I pulled my hand away and tucked it into the towel.
He was right about so much. We’d barely made it through the first Sanctum alive. It would be stupid to deny myself a weapon. My mission was important—the fate of the world, and my soul, depended on it.
But I had clung to Atroxus for so long. A few burns were such a small price to pay to drag myself that much closer to my humanity. Maybe the pain made it easier
to ignore that I had to reach deeper and deeper over the years to find those remaining pieces of faith. Easier to ignore the spread of the vampire in me, a necrotic infection in a slow march to the surface.
I had promised Atroxus that I had always been faithful. But this didn’t feel like faith. It felt like temptation—like crying out the wrong name in bed.
“I can’t.” My voice was weaker than I wished it was. “It’s not who I am.”
Asar pulled another towel from a crooked copper rack. “Here. You’re still shivering.”
I wrapped it around my shoulders, grateful to put an extra layer between myself and the rest of the world.
“When I was exiled to Morthryn, I thought that I had nothing left worth living for,” he said. “I was the bastard second son who was always lucky to be allowed to live. But I did what I had to, to earn something like respect. To build something out of nothing.” He let out a bitter laugh. “And believe me, I bled for it, Iliae. Carved out my own heart for it. And I destroyed it all. I couldn’t even hate my father for sending me here, because I deserved it. I was happy to let this place be my end.”
His gaze flicked up to mine. The light of his left eye pulsed faintly with his heartbeat. “But it wasn’t. It was a beginning.”
“How?” I asked.
I could only manage the one word. But what I meant was: how could something so terrible be anything but an end? How could a wound that deep be anything but fatal?
Asar took a long time to answer. He pressed his hand to the cracked wall.
“I began to hear things that no one else did,” he said quietly. “Cries that needed answering. The world is built atop the invisible, abandoned souls. They needed
someone.”
They needed someone.
There was no mystical Turned connection that could make me feel Asar’s soul more deeply than I did in this moment.
I thought of him silhouetted against that broken door, one man standing between the collision of worlds.
Asar, I now understood, was like me. Not because he was related to my maker, or because he wielded a magic that spoke so innately to mine. But because he, too, was a healer. He had devoted himself to fixing the broken things that no one else
saw.
How could I deny him help with that?
It was still in service to my mission, I told myself. It was the rational thing to do.
But I still felt like a traitor when I said, “Fine. I’ll help you.”
