Runebreaker Page 4

“Of course not, Aidan,” she replied. “I was just going to let you get a full night’s sleep first. So I could sleep, as well.”

  “We leave tonight.” He would get a jump start on them. He would be there when the attack began.

  “So much for that,” she said. “This is why I don’t tell you things until you absolutely need to know. A girl needs her beauty rest.”

  “Sleep when you’re dead.” He reached for a dry pair of boxers.

  “Not even then,” she said, deadpan. “I’ll be too busy haunting your arse for getting me killed.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  They didn’t leave immediately.

  He blamed Kianna.

  Not that she ever outright forced them to wait until morning—no, she knew him better than that, knew the moment she tried to reason he’d dig in his heels and force his way. Instead, she took her time assembling all of her weapons. Then she insisted they actually eat something warm, while they had a dry place. Which meant beans on toast, a meal he’d come to expect and despise. Howls weren’t the only ones starving on this cursed island. Then she suggested he take a nap, which he refused with a yawn.

  And then she pulled back the curtain to the torrential downpour that was Glasgow’s evening weather, casually mentioning that it would suck to have to trudge out there without magic or light to guide their way, as use of either would get them caught by the scouts Trevor had surely already sent out toward Edinburgh.

  He hated admitting that she had a point.

  If they left now, they’d be in sheer darkness. Sheer, wet, freezing darkness. He couldn’t use Fire to warm himself or light the way, not without risking his former comrades stumbling upon him. Nor could they use the few working torches they had, for fear of the same.

  He stood by the window, fully clothed, his daggers restocked, and shivered, watching the rain pour down the glass. He couldn’t even see past the window into the street beyond, the night was so dark and the rain so thick. No way in hell he wanted to be caught out in that.

  Maybe it was from being attuned to Fire, but he hated the rain and he hated the cold above all else. Oh, and large bodies of water.

  God must truly exist, to fuck him over so badly by trapping him here and granting all three at once.

  “We’re screwed,” he said, turning from the window.

  Kianna was in pajamas.

  Like, pink-and-black-plaid pajama bottoms and a pink tank top. She was literally the only Hunter he knew who wore anything other than black. Then again, she broke the mold on a lot of things—her attire was pretty benign in comparison.

  She was snuggled up on the sofa, wrapped in a few thick quilts, reading a book. Probably a romance novel, knowing her. The kinkier, the better. Preferably with lesbians. “Hmm?” she muttered, not looking up.

  He didn’t want to take off his gear. Not that it was comfortable, but it felt like giving in. Not just to the night, but to any hope of a different future. He needed to keep moving. Fire wasn’t an element of complacency—it had to be fed, to burn, to spread. If he lost momentum now, a small part of him screamed he would snuff out.

  “This,” he said. He flopped down on the sofa next to her and kicked his feet up, resting them beside her hip.

  She shoved them off the sofa without looking.

  “No boots on the furniture.” She looked over the book at him. “I know you’re from the mountains, but were you raised in a bloody barn?”

  “No, but my neighbors had one.” He reached down and began unlacing his boots. As much as it hurt his pride to stay in, he knew she was right—if they left now, they’d be captured or killed or both.

  He wasn’t going to burn out. Not just yet.

  Not until someone paid for all of this.

  “So why are we screwed?” Kianna asked. She flipped a page. Judging from the cover, there were definitely lesbians in this one. Which definitely meant they weren’t leaving any time soon. “Despite the obvious.”

  He didn’t know how to say it. No, he didn’t want to say it. The words burning in the back of his throat.

  We can’t do this alone.

  We need the Guild to survive.

  If Calum falls and I’m not there, everything will have been for nothing.

  Silence and the hiss and pop of the fire filled the room while he sat there, fingers twined through his laces, unable to move or speak. Any of those admissions felt like defeat. Fire cursed inside of him, telling him he was worthless if he failed after all of this, telling him he needed to fight harder, burn brighter, otherwise he was worth no more than the undead he hunted. If he didn’t make his mark on the world, no one would remember him.

  If no one remembered him, he might as well have never existed in the first place.

  After a moment, Kianna put the book down and stared at him. “Why did you do it?”

  “What?” Her words broke the spell and pulled him from his reverie—it wasn’t depression. No, that was a heavy, sodden thing. When he turned inward, it was all knives and cauterization.

  “Don’t act stupid, twat. Why did you kill him?”

  He’d been waiting for her to ask that question.

  He’d been waiting since he ran off to the Underground, and he still didn’t have an answer. None that made sense. None that would make her want to abandon him less.

  “Because I wanted to,” he said, tossing his boots toward the fire with a thud.

  “Bullshit. I know you. You’re an arsehole and you’re reckless, but you aren’t that stupid.”

  Aidan stared at his boots and the flames flickering off the polished black leather. He bit his lip as the memory came back—not the image, no, but the scent. The scent of Vincent’s burning flesh, the char of his leather jacket, the singe of his hair. He could almost see Vincent’s eyes in the fire’s reflection, could almost see the fear.

  Then Aidan shook his head and looked to Kianna, and the vision was gone.

  “What do you want to hear?” he asked. “That I lost control? That magic is dangerous? That everything you ever warned me about finally happened?”

  Rage was a slow build inside of him, but mostly, he was too tired to feel it. His words sounded as empty as the city he was exiled from.

  “Those are my words, yes,” Kianna replied. “I want yours.”

  He couldn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at the tattoos on his knuckles: BURN THEM. The first of many. He’d gotten them the day after he’d received his Hunter’s mark and attuned to Fire. As a reminder, a motive. A mandate. He’d spent his entire life after the Resurrection with only one goal: make the Howls pay. It had been the one thing guiding him forward, and the one thing keeping his rage in check. Burn them. Burn the ones who did this to him, to his world. Burn every last Howl and necromancer until he had the Dark Lady by the throat.

  The charge wasn’t meant to apply to his comrades, as well.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  And there it was. The three words he wanted to hold back, because releasing them was the flood over his flames. He’d always known. He’d always been assured. Fire was his weapon and he would wield it against the undead until he died. Fire was his. To control and command. To carve a path straight to the Dark Lady’s heart.

  “That’s not an answer, Aidan,” Kianna said. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  Aidan shrugged, still staring at his tattoos. He could practically feel his mark burning against his right forearm.

  “He pissed me off,” he began, but that wasn’t right, either.

  He closed his eyes.

  “He woke me up.”

  “He woke you up,” Kianna said. “Are you bloody well kidding me?”

  Aidan shook his head.

  The scent was still in his nostrils.

  “He woke you up and you decided to kill him?”

  “I didn’t
decide anything,” Aidan said. His words were barely above a whisper.

  “What?”

  He couldn’t explain it to her. She wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t.

  She wasn’t attuned. She didn’t know how the Spheres sang and intoxicated. She didn’t know. She never would.

  “I didn’t do it,” he managed.

  He hadn’t meant to kill Vincent.

  He hadn’t done it.

  Vincent woke him up. Woke him up from some dream he couldn’t grasp. A dream with a boy calling his name, and a grave calling his soul. A dream that seemed to resonate deeper than anything ever had. A dream he didn’t want to look at, because for some reason, it hurt like hell.

  “It was Fire,” Aidan muttered. “My Sphere. It...it killed him.”

  “I told you magic would bite you in the arse some day,” she replied, but her voice was unsteady.

  Kianna distrusted magic. No, that was too gentle—she despised it. Said that’s what got them into this mess in the first place. Even though magic had allowed her to transition without surgery, even though it had saved her arse in battle more times than he would dare bring up, she would never be attuned. She would never wield the Spheres as a weapon or view magic as anything less than a curse humanity brought upon itself. He’d tried asking why, when they first met. When he was attuned and she stood by with disdain while watching him get tattooed.

  He’d tried, but just like him, she didn’t talk about her past. Or her feelings. Which was precisely why they hadn’t killed each other yet.

  Secretly, he’d always thought she was just scared of wielding so much power. Scared of what she would do with it. Or maybe she was just the ultimate hipster, denying herself magic when it had become mainstream. He’d never know. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that her aversion to magic was, in some small way, starting to feel justified.

  Up until today, he’d believed that the Spheres were just weapons, no better or worse than the person who wielded them. He thought he’d been in control.

  Yet, that very morning, Fire had proven that it was the master. It had taken control of him.

  And Fire had only one desire: burn them all.

  No matter who was offered at the stake.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kianna made him sleep on the sofa.

  He couldn’t blame her, not after admitting to accidentally killing his comrade in his half sleep. It was another reason he didn’t want to stay here, why he wanted to be on the road and as close to Edinburgh as possible: he couldn’t trust himself. Not around anyone, but especially not around her.

  He didn’t think he could move forward if he accidentally killed his only friend.

  So he lay on the leather couch, covered in quilts, while the fire smoldered in the hearth and Kianna snored from the nearby bedroom. He was tired. More than tired. But sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

  He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t thoughtful. He was just...angry.

  After all Aidan had done for the troops—the battles won, the lives saved, the plans made—this one cock-up was all it had taken to get kicked out. One mistake, and everything he’d fought and bled for was thrown out the window. No one gave a shit that he was the only reason the highlands were free. No one cared that, without him, they would have lost the battle for Glasgow a year after the Resurrection. Without him, they’d all be dead or Howls by now, no question. And now, he wouldn’t even get to take part in the attack he’d spent the last year devising.

  He wouldn’t be there when the castle fell and the first of the Kin was destroyed.

  He wouldn’t be the one to liberate Scotland from the Howls for good.

  Someone else would get the credit.

  Someone else would gain that immortality.

  He lay there, fists clenched, and seethed at it. The injustice. The stupidity. Fire smoldered in his chest, wanted nothing more than to burn the whole flat down, to run back to the Guild and make them all pay. It filled him with that want, that need. To burn. To hurt. To feed. And as he stared at the embers in the hearth, he realized how easy it would be. They wouldn’t be prepared for it. He knew the secret ins and outs of the place. He could sneak in, murder Trevor in his sleep, and take the Guild as his own. They would follow him into battle. And if they didn’t? He could burn it all down from the inside out.

  He could show them.

  He could prove to the world not to cross Aidan Belmont.

  He could...

  ...what the hell was he thinking?

  He tried to take a deep breath and quench the embers in his chest. He wasn’t going to kill his co-commander—even if he’d screwed his commander and been screwed over in return. He wasn’t going to openly rebel against the Guild. He was still a Hunter. He was still sworn to protect the innocent.

  What if they don’t deserve protecting?

  The voice hissed from the bowels of Fire, a feminine smolder that sent chills down his spine. The same voice that had whispered to him earlier...

  What if they are but cattle? Sheep? And you the shepherd. The butcher. The king.

  He saw it then, in the fires of the hearth—him on the throne in Edinburgh, the remains of civilization sprawled at his feet, bowed and praying, begging and groveling.

  Why do you serve, when they should serve you? Why do you give them power, when you have the might of the eternal flame in your hands?

  He looked down, and the blankets were gone, and in his palms sparks like constellations spun and danced. The power thrummed through him, a smoldering chord that lay heavy on his heart. The power. The power. To burn or bless, to consume or cauterize. He held life in his hands, and that life pulsed with possibility.

  Why do you serve, when you are meant to rule?

  The voice changed, melted from feminine to masculine, and from the shadows a figure appeared, flickering from dark to light like an ignited spark. Once, nothing. Then, presence.

  And what a presence this man was.

  “Why do you grovel, when I can make you king?”

  The guy snared Aidan’s senses. From head to toe, he breathed sex and sensuality and danger. Tousled black hair that fell past his chiseled jaw; glinting copper eyes and pure white teeth; olive skin that glistened in the firelight. Or maybe it was his own light that made him shine. He wore very little—tight black denim with ripped knees, pointed black shoes, and a smile that sent a thousand terrible thoughts racing through Aidan’s head.

  That smile said that even the jeans were more than he wanted to be wearing.

  Aidan knew the questions he should ask: Who are you? What are you doing here?

  He knew that the man wasn’t a man, not really—he was too otherworldly, too utterly perfect. Which meant he was an incubus, a Howl pulled from Fire, a monster craving and crafted for heat and sex and passion.

  Aidan knew all of this, but the only question he could ask was, “How?”

  The man tilted his head to the side.

  “I like you,” he mused. The words sent more flame racing through Aidan’s chest. Aidan tried to sit up, but the man was at his side, and he pressed Aidan back down with one smoldering, frozen hand. “You are much more...enthusiastic...than the last.”

  The man knelt. His hand remained on Aidan’s chest. This close, only a foot away, and Aidan could see every fleck in the flames of the incubus’s eyes. He could smell the musk and cologne, the undercurrent that promised two things: sex and destruction.

  Two things he wanted with every inch of him.

  “My name, Hunter,” the incubus cooed, “is Tomás.” The way he bit his lip made Aidan squirm. “And we are going to have so much fun.”

  “How...” Aidan managed. “How will I be king?”

  “Shh,” Tomás said. He pressed a finger to Aidan’s lips. Ice shattered across Aidan’s tongue, chills and fever piercing his throat.


  Aidan leaned against the touch.

  “It matters not how,” Tomás said. “Only when. And I can promise you, Aidan, that your rule will be soon. Together, we will send the whole world to its knees.”

  “I know what you are,” Aidan whispered against Tomás’s finger. The Howl’s flesh tasted sweet.

  Tomás’s hand clenched on his chest, and the blossom of pain made him moan with pleasure.

  “Do you, now?”

  “Yes,” Aidan whispered.

  “What am I then?”

  “What I’ve been waiting for.”

  Tomás smiled and removed his finger, pulling down Aidan’s bottom lip. “Good answer.”

  Then Tomás leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  Fire raged across Aidan’s vision, burning away the flat, the sofa, the city, until it was only the two of them in the flames, the heat and the chaos and bliss, and even as his body ached and writhed and throbbed, he was apart from it, watching it all—him and the incubus, locked in this embrace—but that wasn’t what snared his attention. It was the flames. The glorious, pulsating flames that whirled around them, the fire that burned bright with passion and promise.

  Because in those flames, he saw his future.

  A throne of kraven skulls and a crown of bloodling teeth, a castle of ever-living fire and ash. At his feet, the humans who had scorned him, the Howls who’d hunted him. And at his side, on a throne of ribs and basalt, sat Tomás. His lover. His savior. His king.

  “All of this will be ours,” Tomás said, reaching over to grip Aidan’s thigh. “All I ask is that you submit to me. Obey me. And I will give you everything you desire.”

  Tomás squeezed, and the castle burned, and around them humans and Howls screamed in agony, in harmony, but he barely heard it as Tomás climbed atop him, took Aidan’s face in his hands.

  “Be mine,” Tomás whispered.

  “I already am,” Aidan replied, arching his body to be closer to Tomás, to the heat, to the power, to the desire. “I want you.”

  “Then I am yours.”

  Tomás pulled their lips together, and Aidan grabbed his hips, pulled himself closer, closer, as the world burned hotter, hotter...