Brandon Ashveil's Arc

Chapter 9 of 18

The tunnel opened into a low chamber. A single shaft of pale light fell from a crack in the ceiling. On a slab of stone at the far wall lay the fae lord Collin Thornweave, the enemy Brandon had hunted for two years and the man whose wounds his own body carried. White hair stuck to a wet forehead. Yellow eyes rolled under half-shut lids. A dark robe clung to a small, thin frame. Fever heat rose off him in a haze Brandon could see. Brandon crossed the floor and knelt. His own pulse jumped in time with Thornweave's. To work on the bond he needed the fae lord still. Not dead. Still. If Thornweave thrashed, the bond would tear inside Brandon's chest and take them both. He had no rope. No chain. Nothing in these tunnels to hold a fevered fae down. Thornweave's eyes cracked open. They fixed on Brandon and sharpened. "Hunter," he said. His voice was dry paper. A thin hand rose from the slab and clawed at Brandon's wrist. Brandon felt the scratch on his own arm at the same moment. Blood beaded on both. "Stop," Brandon said. "You do that again, we both bleed out on this floor." Thornweave bared small teeth. His hand kept moving, weak but sure. He wanted the fight. He would take Brandon with him. Brandon caught the wrist and pinned it to the stone. Thornweave bucked. Pain flared in Brandon's ribs where the fae lord's ribs struck the slab. He eased his grip. The fae lord thrashed harder. Brandon eased more. Every hold he tried, the bond punished him for. He let go and sat back on his heels, breathing hard. He looked at the slab. Then at Thornweave's yellow eyes. Then down at his own hand. Brandon drew his knife and, before he could think past it, opened a shallow cut along the inside of his own forearm. He felt the sting. He watched the twin line rise on Thornweave's arm at the same second. "You feel that," Brandon said. "Every move you make, I make on me. You fight, I cut. You try to die, I bleed you first." Thornweave stared at the matching line on his own skin. Understanding moved through the fever. His hand fell open on the stone. His chest rose and fell, fast, then slower. "Deal, hunter," he whispered. Brandon set the knife where the fae lord could see it and laid his cut arm across Thornweave's chest as a marker. Neither of them moved. The bond hummed steady between them, hot but level. He had his stillness. He had bought it with his own skin, and the price would climb with every minute he worked. Somewhere back in the passage, a lantern held six fireflies. Brandon began, alone, on the bond.