Soul of Ice (Chronicles of Dawn)

Chapter Thirty-One

“Sleeping sickness?” Leirie wondered aloud, her question echoing the empty room at the top of the apothecary. “No, that wouldn’t kill an immortal.”

The scratch of quill on parchment sounded again as she sorted through heaps of tomes in Moira’s room at the top of the tower, marking down any sickness that could explain the sudden loss of lives.

Because of Runa, Leirie had had an epiphany—Surina’s attack could have been an isolated one. Based off of the redacted notes in the investigation, the one who attacked Suri had been dealt with.

So, what if—and it was a huge what if—they couldn’t find a scent or obvious cause of death for the others because it wasn’t a person who killed them? What if it was a disease? Some sickness that infiltrated their bodies and somehow even immortals fell victim to it. And what better place to locate evidence for an invisible killer than the apothecary?

Most of the tomes and texts in the lower levels were for healers to diagnose mortal patients with common ailments or everyday injuries. Those wouldn’t be of any value to her, but she knew Moira maintained a personal collection of healer’s volumes in her private quarters. And since that’s where Suri had stayed to recover after the dragon attack, she knew where the key was.

The room wasn’t opulent to any degree, but it was spacious and fitted with adequately crafted mahogany furniture. More of a scholar’s escape, the jewel of the otherwise bare chamber was an ornate desk, set between two towering shelves, filled to the brim with volume upon volume of scientific journals.

“Could be some form of aneurysm?” Leirie shook her head as she said it, already scratching through the word. “That wouldn’t be contagious. Gods ,” she groaned into the ceiling. She’d been in here for hours and her migraine was getting worse.

With her heightened smell, scents were overwhelming in a place like the apothecary. All around her were noxious salves and potent medicinal liquids. And she couldn’t get her damned hearing to stop focusing on the stupid cricket that somehow found its way to the furthest reaches of the tower. It just kept chirping and whistling and—

“Shut up already!” she shrieked into the empty space.

The shrill screech bounced around the room a couple times before revealing complete silence.

Finally.

She’d been on edge all day. It’d been three nights since Fynn left his recurring gift of wine in her bedchamber, along with another invitation for dinner attached to it—another invitation she declined. Over those three nights, her mood had been steadily going downhill, as it always did when she ran out of blood.

For someone like her, who started showing signs of the transition nearly three weeks ago, going without blood for even a day was unnatural, impossible even. The king had been so taken aback by her tempered hunger, he let her remain in the Court of the Sun until she showed more obvious signs of the change. Assuming that meant her wanting to tear out a human’s throat, she imagined she was in the clear.

Based on the changes in her strength, speed, and coordination, she was in the latter half of her transition, but for some reason, she had a growing distaste for the smell of blood— almost all blood.

The few times she’d been around him since that morning on Surina’s balcony had been tortuous. She couldn’t touch him, let alone breathe the same air as him. The sunset seduction of his scent and the honeyed vice of his blood—the two in tandem were so decadent and lush. Like the darkest chocolate sweetened to perfection.

A shudder ran her veins as her power tickled every nerve in her body. Whatever magic he bottled into that wine, which staved off the impending hunger, didn’t exempt Fynn.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she prioritized her thoughts, bringing her attention back to the task at hand. Three more texts to get through and then she’d be—

Leirie studied the shelves on either side of the desk, tears nearly forming when she finished her count. She’d be only an eighth of the way through.

Closing her eyes, she huffed a solemn breath, selecting the next book at random. A black leather text with bindings that were barely securing the pages together. It was old, the leather like tree bark beneath the soft pads of her fingertips. It belonged in a museum, not on a bookshelf. Besides, the information it contained was barely comprehensible. Most of it was just scribbled accounts of patients and frantic side notes.

Every couple pages was a separate case the healer had studied over the course of a year. The reports were of a deadly sickness that swept through Orlanthe, taking thousands of lives in a few days. Tens of thousands over a period of a month—or maybe it was a week? It was difficult to tell when most of the accounts were either dated by the season or not at all.

There was a woman who lost her entire family to the illness, and she managed to survive it somehow. Although, based on the healer’s notes, the woman wasn’t all the way there afterwards. Whatever remained of her was just... broken.

Many found similar fates, according to the journal. A disease that wiped out even the strongest of body and mind. To include immortals.

Flipping to a new page in her own journal, Leirie jotted down every description of their symptoms. Every allusion made to their ailment. No matter what their story was or what they’d endured, they all spoke of it as if it were some parasite . Something that burrowed deep, stripping the host of bodily control and thought. And if it didn’t take your life, then it didn’t leave you with much else.

After marking frequently used words or phrases, she circled the most prominent in black ink. It was a word in a language she didn’t recognize—and she spoke three .

Leirie set the quill down, leaning all the way back in her chair.

“ Draug ,” she whispered quietly. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She wanted to believe that this could be it, but what proof did she really have apart from that of a rambling healer? There wasn’t any scientific data referenced that she could turn to. And she couldn’t exactly ask the author, as these findings were written a thousand years ago, during the Second Age.

If she put this before the king, not only would he laugh in her face for thinking that the accounts of survivors in the midst of great loss had any standing, but he would charge her for stealing and helping herself to information she wasn’t privy to.

Good intentions or not, she needed more to break this case. She needed more to bring Suri home.

Shoving up from the mess of a desk, Leirie decided to retire for the night—or rather morning, she deduced, peering out the window to find a barely there glow cresting the mountains. Though no light reached the palace yet, she didn’t want to have to explain her comings and goings to any mortals who may catch her sneaking back into the west wing.

Blowing out all the nearby candles lining her side of the room, she collected papers and books she’d stolen from the investigation into a neat pile, adding the black leather journal on top. But when she reached to pick up that pile, a candle flickered to life on its own. The one closest to her.

Her face scrunched into a weary scowl. She blew it out again, only for it to reignite a moment later.

“What in Silas’s breath?” she grumbled aloud, cursing the God of Fire.

After blowing it out a third time, she used her fingers to seal the wick with ice. Her victory was short-lived. Chills ran up her spine when not only did that same candle rekindle, but every other candle before her.

Retreating a step, a scream tore from her lips when she met resistance at her back. Leirie spun around, nearly losing her balance in the process. Two dark eyes, twinkling in the candlelight, held her in place.

“Going somewhere?” Fynn asked with a criminal smile.

Leirie’s hand went to her chest, where it felt like her heart was looking for a way out. “By the Mother, Fynn,” she rasped, voice scraping against the dryness of her throat. “Was that you ? You scared me! How did you even know to look all the way up here?” And how did he manage to do it so quietly? The room was enchanted to keep sound from leaving when the door was closed, not from entering.

He chuckled, tapping the side of his nose. “Flowers in the rain, remember?”

Her scent.

“You could have just passed a message on through a servant, instead of sniffing me out like a bloodhound would a rabbit.” Her snide remark was uncalled for, but she was still coming down from the startlement.

“Only I’ve tried that, but you’re avoiding me, remember?” His stare meticulously scoured their surroundings, grazing over heaps of books on Moira’s bed, to pause briefly at the materials on the desk. Then, he faced her completely. “So, little rabbit, want to tell me why that is?”

It was impossible to brave that look. A look that said she better have a pretty damn good excuse for ignoring four invitations to dinner and every knock at her door.

I was protecting you by keeping you far away from me. Saving you from the twisted effects of my curse. Even now your blood pulses in my ears, begging me to rile your heart just to hear its chorus.

All of those thoughts ran circles in her head. None of it she could admit, let alone explain . “This investigation has required me to do… somewhat unlawful things. If you were to get caught helping, you could be tried as a conspirator alongside me.”

It was the truth and a lie all in one.

“Executed beside such a lovely creature...” Fynn hummed, his eyes blinking slow, as if he were thinking of something beautiful, like a ballet or the ocean at sunrise. “It’s almost picturesque, don’t you think? Artists and poets would make a fortune off such a spectacular tragedy.”

That dark rendition of beauty was one she’d be avoiding at all costs.

Catching her off guard when he lifted a hand to brush a wild curl from her cheek, she sucked in air, holding it in until Fynn was done tucking the strand behind an ear.

“I can make my own choices, Leirie,” he whispered between them.

“I wasn’t implying that you couldn’t.”

“No, you just implied I would get caught.” The corner of his mouth tipped up, and her stomach fluttered in response. Not just from the flash of teeth, but from his scent too. The sweet caress of his smell sent ripples of tingles across her skin. “Whatever your secrets, they’re safe with me. I never get caught. And do you know how I never get caught?”

Leirie’s brows lifted. “Because you wear a lot of black?”

The snort preceding his eye roll nearly made her laugh, but she had to refrain from falling into that natural comfort when she was around him, or else she’d fall into her hunger next.

“Because I use people. The ones who want to be used.”

She chewed her bottom lip, the sting of pain keeping her mind from wandering to where her stomach already was.

“I want to help you, Leirie.” A lazy grin stretched his lips as his gaze flicked behind her. “Besides,” he tsked, “looks like you could use an extra hand.”

Following his stare, she took in the state of the room. To an outsider, it probably looked like a wind funnel had slipped in through the window and trashed the place, but she had a deliberate and calculated system.

Leirie crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll have you know, I’m very close to solving this thing.”

Fynn nodded his head towards the desk. “You’ve been buried in this investigation for two weeks. Maybe all you’re missing is a fresh set of eyes.”

Determination lined his sharpened features, and she’d seen that look on his sister before—he wasn’t taking no for an answer. And why should he? He was right— annoying , but right. She needed him, and not just for the investigation or to get through the curse. Fynn might not know the full extent of her magic, but it felt like he understood her to some degree. Or in the very least, he wanted to.

Leirie sighed, and his lips curved in triumph. Before her body could act on what her mind wanted to do with those lips, she removed herself from the cloud of his scent. “Well, long story short, I’m no longer looking for a killer. Not a conventional one, anyway.”

Laying a hand on the top of the pile, she peered over to Fynn, who seemed to be ruminating on her words.

Swiping his tongue down a canine, he took a thought-filled step in her direction. “If not a fae or a human, then what? A dragon ?”

She shook her head. “I think it could be a disease that affects both humans and fae.” Leirie opened the black leather journal, locating the first mention of the ailment from the Second Age. “I found this just before you came in, and while I’m not exactly well-versed with these kinds of things, I think it could be a start.”

With an affinity for water and a passion for botany, Leirie had been invited to the garrison to train among the healers a few years ago—to learn the science and magic behind life and death. It was something she knew she’d be good at. A way to atone for her future sins by helping those in need.

Her father would never allow it, though, claiming the risks in exposing her other ability were too high, but that was hardly the case. Lady Windspire, the only child of the Duke of Cillica, a healer’s acolyte? There were no praises or status to gain in such a profession, therefore it served no purpose in the Windspire lineage.

Handing over the journal, she had to distract herself with the lines of her palm as she waited for him to get through a page. Then another. By the time he flipped the second page over, she was frothing at the mouth to hear what he thought of it.

His voice finally broke the silence, right before she could.

“ Draug ?” Fynn asked, a curious lilt to his voice. “Now where did you find this ?”

She shrank beneath his piercing stare. “On Moira’s bookshelf. Why? Do you know the meaning? I don’t recognize the language. From what I can tell, it’s not Phaetrian or Britonian.” Not that Britonian was much different than the mortal tongue. They just wanted to make the language more complicated to set themselves apart. It was obnoxious.

“You speak Phaetrian?” he countered, an unexpected bemusement trailing his question.

Her nostrils flared with his breath, and the bob of his throat when he spoke brought her stare to the veins there. “My mother was Phaetrian,” she said slowly, following his throat down to where jagged pink lines strayed from where majority of his chest was covered by his blouse. “ Half Phaetrian. Her mother was born there but resettled in Thesia.”

The migraine in her temples was throbbing now. An ache that started in her jaw and stretched all the way to the back of her head. Like her skull was seconds from splitting.

“You’ll have to teach me some.” The warm statement drifted over her ears, melting the restless twitching of her fingers. “When we’re done solving a string of deaths, of course.”

“Of course,” she reiterated, a nervous flush heating her blood. She tapped the journal to draw his attention back to it. “So you know the language?”

Reluctantly following her return to the subject, Fynn slid his finger to the word on paper. “It’s Old Fae.”

“ Old Fae? ” Excitement bubbled up in her throat with just a mention of the ancient language, which hadn’t been spoken as the common tongue since the First Age—though at the time of its origin, it didn’t actually have a name, since it was the only language to exist. That was before mankind. “What does it mean?”

“ Draug has many meanings, depending on the year. In the First Age, it was, in a sense, the night . A time of rest and peace.”

Not exactly what she expected. Based on how much horror it instilled in the population, she assumed it would have a meaning beyond terrifying.

The prince shifted on his feet, lines creasing the space between his brows. “By the end of the Second Age, though, the meanings get misconstrued—twisted. Draug becomes something like death or the final end.”

“Oh.” It was blasphemy to speak of death as the end of life, as it was a grave offense to Eira, the Mother of Souls, who nurtured and returned every life back to the earth. Death was never final, not when it came to matters of the soul. “They named the parasite death ?”

“Seems that way,” he stated flatly.

A strange chill crawled into the space, like little cold spiders traversing her skin. Groans from the aged hinges of the door downstairs found its way up to them.

“Did you hear that?” Leirie whispered.

Fynn nodded, implementing a quick sweep of the room—of all the proof someone would need to charge them with collusion. Only he was a prince of another kingdom that she’d been sharing all of this with. This wasn’t just collusion.

This was treason.

Placing the journal back onto the pile softly enough to not make a sound, Fynn glanced past her, toward the entry to Moira’s room. “Could be someone looking for a healer?”

Her head started to shake in quiet response as she crept to the entry. The apothecary was closed at night for a reason—humans couldn’t wander outside in the evenings, and since fae had hastened healing and were mostly immune to illness, it made no sense to keep it open.

Forcing her hearing to focus on anything that wasn’t the stupid cricket that had started up again, Leirie cupped an ear.

Solemn whispers swam back and forth—there were two, and neither were in the mortal tongue, but spoke in her mother’s native language.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” the first spoke, his voice teeming with desperation.

It sounded somewhat familiar, but from this distance, she couldn’t pinpoint who it belonged to. It was like listening through a wall of glass.

“Of course,” the second one assured the male in perfect Phaetrian—this one was a female. “If you think she’s in danger, I want to help.”

Who was in danger?

Leirie looked over her shoulder at Fynn, who was entirely lost by the conversation.

What are they saying? he mouthed to her.

Her lips parted to translate, but she was cut off.

“I don’t trust him,” the male started up again. “He’s hiding something from the rest of us. Even from his closest followers.”

“Like what?” the female returned.

The frustration was evident in the way he paced across the marble floors. “I don’t know. All I’m certain of is that I want my daughter far away from whatever is coming.”

Leirie didn’t like the sound of that. What was coming?

“You’re sure about this?” she asked of the male.

“I have to be.” His pain-filled silence stirred before he spoke again. “She’ll be accepted there?”

The female’s next words were kind and grim. “With open arms, Ophellius.”

Blood leeched from Leirie’s body, leaving her nothing but a cold, shocking revelation. Lurching backwards, she accidentally bumped into a low stack of books at her ankle.

It toppled over.

“Someone’s here.” The deep thrum of her father’s voice, now in the mortal tongue, carried up the tower walls.

Fynn pulled her out of reach of the door’s swing, quietly sealing it with a click .

“That’s my father.”

Her father, who sounded so torn and scared. Even when her mother was in her final moments, he was never like this. He was strong—for Leirie.

Who terrified him so much that he was plotting to have her transported elsewhere in secret? What was coming that he was so afraid of?

“I heard,” Fynn spoke in a low hush against her ears. “And he heard us.”

She looked back at the pile of information she’d taken from the king’s study—as if the curse wasn’t enough to earn her father’s mistrust, she’d gone and stolen from their king.

Air evaded every hollow inhale. “He said he was going to send me away. I don’t think he was talking about Cillica either.”

Fynn cinched his grip around her wrist, dragging her across the room as her father’s steps drew closer. She could hear the door only three flights below them being thrown open.

Pausing beside the desk, his head snapped in every direction, searching the space.

He could look all he wanted. From this high up, there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

As she was struggling to come to terms with a punishment befitting this caliber of deceit, he seemed to finally give up on the hope of escape—until he splayed two hands on the desk, heaving the entirety of its contents onto the floor.

“There’s no use, Fynn. I should have never dragged you into this—”

Fervid palms framed either side of her cheeks, forcing her to look into those obsidian eyes that steeled on her. “I told you, I never get caught. And I’ve grown too fond of you to let someone just take you away, do you understand?”

Probably from the shock of seeing Fynn shed that cool guise and morph into the Blackwell prince she’d forgotten he was, Leirie nodded.

Not a second passed before she was being hoisted up by her waist and plopped onto the desk. Wedging himself between her legs, his warm hands whisked through her hair, untangling every silver clip keeping it neat and together. They rang out when they hit the floor. Then, he spread the curls out and over her shoulders with haste.

Thumps picked up in her chest as she followed where his eyes roved the strands. And the way they peeled from her hair to rest on her lips…

“What are you going to do?” Apprehension lined her question, but a racing hunger bolted through her veins when his hand slid under her skirts to rest on the outside of her thigh.

“Not get caught.”

That heated allusion was the last that fell from his mouth before it closed over hers, completely devouring her with an intensity that rivaled the peak of a summer’s day and the darkest nights of winter all in one—irrational, of course, but it was impossible for her to describe it any other way.

His kiss, so wild and searching initially, grew sure and possessive, and she coveted the starved press of his lips—each strike as his heart hammered in his chest.

The hunting glide of his hand seizing the apex of her thigh shredded whatever amount of restraint she was clinging to. Gripping onto the lapels of his black coat, Leirie tugged him closer. He gave in with no resistance at all, droning a deep, purr-like sound when her finger sauntered over the throbbing vein in his neck.

The untempered pulse there skipped when she sucked at the flesh of his bottom lip, grating her teeth over the plump swell.

Fynn broke the kiss, dark irises sparkling as he tilted his chin up, seeming to offer his throat to her. Or maybe that was the curse, leading her on to think that she was entitled to his blood. That it belonged to her purely because she wanted it.

But it wasn’t entitlement that made her slice into him. It was a thirst that had to be quenched—a nagging ache in her jaw that needed to be assuaged.

A low hiss slithered between his teeth, and red— blessed red—trickled from the knick she’d created with her thumbnail. The scarlet rivulet followed the smooth, ivory path of his throat, all the way down to the midnight silk of his shirt.

His mouth parted, though it wasn’t a demand or a plea for her to stop that fell from it. “Some rabbit you turned out to be,” he murmured through the unholy smile taking shape.

Her mouth salivated with the luring invitation, jaws spreading to finish what that little cut started—

“Leirie Windspire!” A spine-shuddering boom of a voice ripped through the air, shattering the corruptive whispers.

Leirie’s spine went taut, straightening out as both of their heads, in unison, swung towards the door.

She knew it was her father climbing those steps the entire time, but maybe she was naive to think that whatever he opened the door to would be a far better alternative to the truth.

“Papa, I…”

Fynn cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand from her skirts while using his collar to wipe up what he could of his blood. “Apologies, Duke Windspire. We didn’t expect—”

“For someone to walk in while you debase my daughter?” His head snapped to Leirie. “ Fix yourself ,” he gritted between clenched teeth, not actually able to look at her for long—and that hurt more than his words. “I’ll be taking you back to your room.”

Mortifying sickness churned in her stomach as she slid from the mahogany surface, desperately fighting the urge to lick Fynn’s blood from her fingers. After kicking her personal journal further under the desk once her feet landed, she realized she should be thanking Tyroch for showing even a glimmer of his favor, despite it not feeling so.

Before Leirie could take a step forward, the prince’s arm barred her in place.

“She’s perfectly capable of making her own decisions.” The snappy remark was a far cry from cordial.

Her father returned a rumbling snarl.

This was an opportunity for Fynn to hide the evidence. Surely, he could see that.

“Fynn, it’s fine.”

“No. It isn’t.” His reply was terse, and it didn’t stop there. “He needs to know that my intentions with you are honest.”

“ Honest ?” The broad stature of her father took up the room as he loomed in, and she grabbed a hold of Fynn’s arm—not out of fear, she realized, but from some primal instinct to protect.

The Duke of Cillica hadn’t always been the polished and collected male he was today. Centuries ago, he was a warrior. Leirie had read the stories too—stories that would make anyone’s skin crawl. The Bloody Brute is what they called him. That title, conjured from the fear of the enemy, originated from his ability to manipulate blood within a body. Something Leirie had never witnessed him do, and she prayed she never would.

Fynn didn’t react or flinch or even waver when the duke stopped a few feet shy of them.

“You speak of honesty when you defile her in secret like a whore?”

Flames from the candles sputtered out, reigniting as a dull blue, which whistled like steaming kettles. In that moment, Fynn looked so much like Lucius, she was almost convinced it was him.

“Fynn,” Leirie urged softly, slipping in a bit of magic. “ Calm down .”

Immediately, goosebumps gathered down her neck and spine, as if in retaliation for her use of power. It was similar to what happened with Surina, only this time it did work.

Fynn’s chest rose with a heavy inhale, and the strong lines of his jaw slackened. The blue flickered out, returning to a faint, golden heat, matching the steady warmth of the hand that curled over hers. “You’re right, Ophellius. Leirie deserves to be courted properly. We were afraid of what others would think of us, so we kept our love a secret.”

Love ? Did he just say love ? Leirie gaped, quickly finding the barely there twinkle of amusement in the crease of his eyes. He tapped the back of her hand, as if to say, go with it.

“He…He’s right,” she fumbled, searching for anything in her father’s features that wasn’t detestable betrayal. “I made him promise to keep it between us. I didn’t want to risk any negative attention right now, because…” Because someone was killing mortals, or so the Court of the Sun believed, and Leirie would be their prime suspect—a fae in transition— if they knew she was in the middle of the change, that is.

“He makes me happy, Papa.” She couldn’t bring herself to lie outright and say she loved him, even if it was just an act. “I’m sorry I kept it from you, but now you see how I’ve been able to control the curse.” She looked to Fynn, who met her with a kind gaze. “It’s because of Fynn. He’s helping me through it.”

Sure, it was a ploy to get her father to look anywhere except right in front of him, but all of what she spoke was the truth. Yet, when she brought her attention back to him, there was no sympathy or understanding in those brown eyes of his—no fatherly warmth she was accustomed to.

A baritone finality was all he returned. “As your father, I forbid it.”

Leirie’s heart sank, and she couldn’t hide what his disapproval did to her. What felt like jagged cracks splintered across her chest, leaving nothing but the overwhelming urge to crawl under a rock to relieve it.

Fynn’s other arm draped around her, gently pulling her close to make her stand tall. “As I am of a higher station, we would not require your blessing, though I think you should reconsider.” A trailing warning sizzled with the returned hiss of the fire. “For Leirie’s sake,” he added, unflinchingly lifting his chin to the duke.

“You will not have it, and while you may not require my blessing, you still need the blessing of my king. As well as your own, prince .”

Where she thought Fynn might have met a wall in that regard, he only grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I received my grandfather’s approval over a week ago. Signed with his seal, should you need to see it.”

There was no way Fynn could have anticipated this moment that long ago, and even if he had, how far was he willing to go to hide the investigation?

They’d probably pushed this act too far and now there was no turning back. Not if she wanted to get out of the tower with the promise of seeing the outside of her room for the next century.

But if they went before her king, that would mean an engagement. She’d be engaged to Fynn Blackwell, a prince of Calaechia.

The prince’s black eyes flitted to Leirie, and try as she might, she could not read them. Even with the rising sun streaming in through the glistening windows.

“So, darling , when shall we meet with your king?”