The Key to Starveldt (35 page)

Overhead, the key ceased glowing and dropped, plummeting earthwards like a golden bird. Without even thinking, Solace stepped forward and caught it, feeling its icy length smacking solidly into her palm.

‘Home,’ she said, dazedly.

Then Laine screamed. Another hole in the world had opened, crackling with purple energy. It was barely thirty metres away across the grass, pinning them between it and the castle’s single iron-and-oak-bound door. As Duchess hissed and shook, too exhausted to lift her head, Solace knew, with dreadful certainty, who was responsible.

Grief.

A weapon glimmered in her brother’s hand, something short and sinister – a spear, she thought, or maybe a javelin. As she dared a glance back to where her friends were clustered at the edge of the drawbridge, time seemed to freeze. They had two choices: stay and fight or try to get inside Starveldt before he attacked. Given how much magic Duchess had expended to bring the castle back to reality and the power of blood, it seemed likely that Solace herself would need to turn the key. But in the time it took her to reach the door, Grief could throw the spear and reach her friends. Either she gave the key to someone else and stood her ground, or risked killing any one of them by turning her back. It was a split second choice.

‘Everyone inside.
Now
!’

Jolted from inaction, her friends obeyed. Blood and sweat making the key slippery, Solace pushed it into Manx’s hands and urged them ahead of her.

‘Go! Open it, I’ll hold him off !’

‘Solace!’ Grief called, his voice carrying clearly through the night air. ‘Do you know who sent me here? Mother isn’t pleased, Solace.’

Panic stabbed through her. Grief was striding through the portal, Mikhail Savarin visible in the background, straining to keep the doorway open. Manx was still scrabbling to fit the key in the lock. Paige was whimpering with fear, while Evan had turned to face the enemy, determined to fight alongside her.

‘It won’t open!’ Manx yelled. ‘Solace, the key won’t turn!’

Dread consumed her. If only she’d kept the key, risked turning her back on Grief for the seconds it took to let them in, they might have been safe. But her brother was too close now. Every nerve alight with fear and the descending rage of combat, combined with the drive to protect her friends, she watched as Grief hefted the weapon, grinning with menace. Behind her, she heard Jess cry out – ‘No, wait!’ – and without thinking, turned to look.

An exhausted, panting Duchess had leapt from the seer’s shoulder, darting across the grass. Jess chased after the little cat. The pair was beyond immediate reach, moving sideways rather than forwards. But Duchess was slow, impeded by her wound and the power she’d spent to open Starveldt; plainly, she couldn’t teleport. With a cry of triumph, Jess reached down to scoop her up, the little cat squirming against her chest.

Duchess begged, but the seer couldn’t hear her.

Grief ’s smile widened. He pulled back his arm and threw the spear.

At Duchess.

Still in Jess’s arms.

The weapon pierced both of them so hard that Jess dropped to her knees. Duchess screamed in an impossible octave, but Jess only gasped, blood bubbling at her mouth as she fell. The little cat was pinned to her. Jess’s mouth was wide in shock and pain, the weird angle of the iron pitching her sideways. Bright blood soaked the front of her cheongsam, arterial and rich.

The spear had struck her heart.

Not Jess
, Solace thought,
no, please, that’s –

Evan screamed, and the bond between them exploded. Solace felt as if she were being flayed from the inside. The scent of blood was overpowering, but this was her
friend
, this was wrong, all wrong. Duchess just lay against Jess’s side like a broken toy, her blue fur matted red and spilling emerald light.
Oh God, what do I do
?

Jess twitched against the grass, her fingers spasming feebly. Evan sobbed her name over and over and tried to pull her into his lap, hindered by the spear. He pressed his hands to the wound in her chest, and all the while Grief continued his approach.

People were screaming, but Solace couldn’t hear them. She could only watch as blood spilled over Evan’s pale hands; watch as Jess lifted her arm and touched him on the cheek, her blue eyes brimming with pain and love; watch as the light spilling from Duchess’s ragdoll body coalesced in a blinding flash like a storm of St Elmo’s fire. Even Grief shielded his eyes at the burst of light, but when Solace looked again, the only change was that Jess’s eyes were glassy and dead, and Duchess was nothing more than a shell of ruined fur, her tiny face still forever.

Grief had reached them, wicked glee in every line of his face. He paused, contemplating his handiwork.

‘Did I get the seer, too?’ he asked, his soft voice dripping with delight. ‘Oh, I hope so. Mother will be pleased. She’s always hated oracles.’

Fury stronger than anything she’d felt at the warehouse and the Rookery sang through Solace. Her vision blurred. She threw herself at Grief. He slid out from under the full force of her first blow, but not fast enough to avoid a solid clip to the face. She felt his cheekbone fragment beneath her fist.

‘Try it, sister,’ Grief hissed, and fought back hard, each strike as savage and swift as a lightning strike. His black eyes glittered with furious joy, but Solace was blind with rage, and her speed matched his. Evan’s empathy was fuelling her now, and sorrow, and grief, and whatever darker nature had been bred into her for just this purpose, but it wasn’t enough. Whether she blocked or took the blow, it was like being hit with a wrecking-ball, over and over: he was so strong, so fast, a hundred years her senior and blood-crazed. It was all she could do to hold her ground.

‘What’s the matter, sister-Solace? Getting weary? Maybe I should play with your friends.’

She knew it was a goad, but with Jess and Duchess lying broken behind her, it hit home. Everything inside her roared. With no way to control the power riding her – loa
or
hounsi?
Which am I
? – her next blow went dangerously wide. It was enough: Grief moved inside her guard, yanked her head aside and tore ravenously into her neck, pulling away at the flesh. Terrified, Solace smashed her hands into his body, but the rough motion of his mouth and tongue didn’t abate. He was feeding from her, moaning softly as blood spilled past his lips and down her shoulder. The pain was exquisite, vile and utterly paralysing.

Shhnk.

There was a sound like meat being forced through a drain. Stricken but suddenly free from her brother’s grip, Solace stumbled back, clutching her neck. Evan stood over Grief, a murderous expression on his face. He was wielding the iron spear that had killed his sister – he’d shoved the point so violently through Grief ’s ribs that it lodged there, hanging askew like a metal splinter. Solace swayed where she stood, the hole in her throat both burning and aching, pain lancing through it like fire.

‘
Leave us
,’ Evan said, his voice twisted beyond recognition.

Grief gasped and licked his lips. ‘Can’t. She tastes too good. Surprised you haven’t figured that out already.’

Staggering backwards, he gripped the haft of the spear, shut his eyes and, hissing with pain, wrenched it from his flesh. A rush of blood followed. Grief tossed the spear aside, but though his face had turned even whiter than usual, a malicious smile still lingered.

‘
Go
!’ Evan yelled.

His face a mask of sick pleasure, Grief glanced behind him, staring at a sweating, shaking Mikhail, still holding the portal open. Its purple edges roped and crackled, arcing madly, as though it were only seconds from meltdown. Grief flicked his gaze back to Solace.

‘I will come for you, sister-love. You’re mine.’

Before she could respond, he was gone, a trail of blood marking his retreat. No sooner had he passed through the gateway than it billowed back in on itself like a collapsing star, vanishing as if it had never existed.

The enormity of what had happened came crashing on her. She could barely breathe as she looked at Evan. The pain in his face echoed down their bond like a knife in the heart. There was blood on his hands and face; Jess’s blood. She could feel every single blow that Grief had landed, the wound in her neck spilling redness down her throat, shoulder, chest. Everything hurt. She wanted to throw up. Her vampiric senses were ravenous, threatening to swamp her, but if she so much as lifted a hand to her mouth, tasted even a single drop, she was doomed.

She and Evan reached the bodies.

‘Jess,’ she whispered.

Her knees gave out, and Evan’s. She became aware that her friends had left the drawbridge and were standing nearby. Jess’s eyes were still open. Every muscle trembling, Solace reached out and closed them. Then she was crying, and Evan’s arms were around her, both of them shaking, collapsing into each other like the edges of Mikhail’s gateway. Blood from her neck was soaking into his clothes.

‘Please. We have to get inside. Guys?’ It was Manx’s voice. ‘They could come back. Please. Come inside. Solace. We need you to open it.’

Solace knew she should answer, but before she could remember how her voice worked, she felt his hand on her shoulder. With some difficulty, Manx pulled her up and turned her towards the castle.

‘Inside,’ he repeated. ‘It’s not safe out here.’

She managed to nod.

‘We can’t leave them. Her.’

They turned. Evan’s eyes were blank. If there’d been anything left in her to break, Solace might have shattered all over again. Stepping away from Manx, she walked back to Jess. She slipped her arms under the seer’s body and lifted, trying to block out the memory of the Jess who’d walked and laughed with her only minutes ago. Desperately, her mind cast about for something, anything, to distract her, and latched onto the prophecy.
At the doom of Starkine’s crossing –

Bile rose in her throat. It had been there all along, a warning to be deciphered, and none of them had seen it. Almost, she faltered, but Evan was there, his eyes trained on Jess’s limp form.

Manx picked up what remained of Duchess, cradling her in his arms. She was limp as a bag of sand, her flesh torn as easily as if it had been made of paper.

Did she know?
Solace wondered, staring at the little cat.
When she climbed on Jess’s shoulder, did she know this would happen? Did it matter? Is that what the prophecy meant – that Jess was always going to die? That Grief would have killed her anyway? He said Sanguisidera hates oracles. He said –

Beside her, Evan swayed drunkenly to his feet. He’d reclaimed the Bloodkin spear.

‘Come on,’ said Manx. His voice was gentle, like waves on the brink of breaking. Evan nodded, but it was like watching a puppet move: whatever had animated him had gone far away.

Solace looked at her friends, the horror on their faces: Electra’s stark, pale grief; Paige’s disbelieving, tear-stained grimace; Laine’s frozen, pleading eyes; Harper’s absent strength.

With Evan and Manx ahead of her, Solace stumbled to the door of Starveldt. The key still hung in the lock from Manx’s efforts at opening it. Jess’s body weighed in her arms, braced against her torso as she manoeuvred one hand free. So badly, she wanted everything to stop. Pressing her wounded wrist to the door, the wood absorbed her blood.

‘Let us in,’ she croaked. ‘Give us sanctuary.’

The voice of Jeon Faraday sounded in her head.

‘Yes,’ said Solace, and then, because she didn’t know what else to add, ‘be whole again.’

The key floated into her hand. The door slid open, and she just stood there, unable to remember how to walk.

But she had to keep going. They all did. There was nothing else left.

I
nside the castle, Solace didn’t know where to look. Not down at Jess. Not at her friends, or Evan. She tried to focus on Starveldt, anchoring herself to its solidity. She passed beneath an intricate archway, turned down a broad, curving hall. Stone, stone, everywhere stone, and all beautifully carved, but Solace barely noticed. With each passing moment, Jess weighed heavier in her arms, dragging at her bruised muscles, the scent of blood a constant torment. Even the key seemed to burn against her hand.

They reached a courtyard: grass, flowers and a spreading willow tree left open to the night sky, surrounded by pillars and overshadowed by the swooping, slender height of a minaret. Solace stopped; she couldn’t go any further. She turned her head, and looked at Evan.

‘Here?’

He nodded. It was enough.

Gently, Solace laid Jess out on the grass, doing her best to cradle the seer’s head. Moonlight bathed everything in a blue glow, muting the wound, the red blood, until she could almost believe they were nothing more than shadows. But there was no concealing the ruinous hole in her friend’s chest, or mending the torn, bloody silk in which she’d died. Her hair had come loose, spilling across the grass like a mess of black threads. Without speaking, Manx placed Duchess at Jess’s side, trying hopelessly to conceal her torn stomach. Solace wondered why Duchess had died at all, powerful as she was, but then she remembered the energy travelling between the little cat and the key, the magic she’d spent to aid the opening of Starveldt. The task had weakened her, leaving her unable even to teleport, as vulnerable as any kitten.

As Jess had been vulnerable.

Solace remembered the warehouse fire, the numbness and horror she’d felt on seeing the bodies of Tryst, Claire and Phoebe wheeled out and taken away. They could have left their friends with the authorities, mourned them from a distance, washed their hands of contact with the dead. Instead, they’d actively sought out the morgue, used Harper’s gift with fire to cremate the bodies and stolen into the Sydney Opera House to spread the ashes out into the wild blue night. She remembered standing beside Evan and asking whether he’d loved Phoebe, and the answering wrench she’d felt as he’d absolved her relationship with Glide. It felt like a lifetime ago. It
was
a lifetime ago. And then there had been Luci, the little girl who oughtn’t have died, but who Sharpsoft had buried in the satyrs’ grove, another casualty of Grief. And now, here they were again, clustered around what remained of Jess and Duchess, mobbed by an even greater sense of despair.