The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Goddess, it hurts. My muscles disobey even the slightest physical demand. My spine screams its protest when I fling myself up too quickly. Keiran’s arm around my waist is blessedly warm, despite the night’s chill. He keeps me from falling, gives me time to rip and tear my way out of the rest of the memories, though they stick to me like spiders’ webs and tickle in the far corners of my mind with every tremor.

I gasp for air, unable to lose the tang of blood in my mouth, and find his gaze. Steady, strong, and unmoving.

“Keir,” I start and his arm tightens around me, like he wants to hold me even closer. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of, and I want to linger and enjoy it—

Wait. Nausea, delayed after my fevered escape, hits with a vengeance. I wriggle in Keiran’s grip and push away from his chest until he releases me. My legs can’t hold my weight yet, but that’s okay. Falling down makes it easier to crawl a short distance away and vomit. I spill my guts into the grass, coughing on the stinging bile, and spitting so I don’t choke on the saliva dripping down my chin. Each muscular contraction leaves me shivering as the shades abandon my body, no longer in need of a weakened host. Their work is done. Their memories remain stuck in my head, jagged like shattered glass and just as dangerous to handle. Distanced from those moments now and thinking back to other shades I’ve put to rest, the similarities are impossible to ignore.

I should have seen it. The killer’s been here so long, has taken so many, and I never even noticed. I failed the people who counted on me to offer them guidance and protection.

There’s no controlling my body when the memory of every death I relived tonight hits a final time, a punishment for skirting too close to the subject again. At least the onslaught of memories is easier to escape now. They pass a heartbeat later when I don’t try to cling to them, or am no longer forced to suffer through them. As they too slip off into the darkness after their shades, I take a deep inhalation. It’s unsteady and I have to spit one last time so I don’t feel like I’m drowning. Even after, everything tastes of copper.

So much blood. All of that blood, over and over.

A strange, pained noise comes from my left. I jerk and glance over, only to find Keiran kneeling beside me. He doesn’t reach for me. Such stupid, self-imposed rules. Instead, I reach for him, needing the press of his body against mine to remind me that I’m safe and corporeal. That I’m not just another shade forced to watch life pass by while I remain and wither.

“Keir,” I say, immensely grateful he understands everything I can’t explain.

He grabs hold of my hand and uses it to drag me up against him. The world rights itself in his arms. I bury my face against him, reveling in the rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, I match our breathing and cling tighter, imagining we could even synchronize our heartbeats. Maybe we do. He holds me there until my knees begin to ache and my fingers go numb and then he holds me longer.

I’m far past exhaustion, ready to drift off to sleep at any second, when his chest vibrates beneath my cheek from his low question, “What did you see?”

That wakes me right up. I stare at the soft weave of his shirt and wonder how long I can fake being too tired to explain myself.

He sighs and clasps a hand around the back of my head. His fingers press through my hair and he rubs small, soft circles against my scalp until I melt against him. Once I’m pliant and unguarded, he tries again.

“Lugh, what did you see? It’s not just luck, us ending up in these places. You did see something in your nightmare, didn’t you? You received a message of some kind?”

“What would you say if I did?”

He gives a half chuckle. “That I’m a damn good storyteller.” When I don’t laugh with him though, he falls silent.

I don’t dare risk glancing up at him and seeing his expression.

“Lugh,” he coaxes, “I’ve always wondered if it were true. The stories I tell... I’m probably wrong most of the time, but it’s what I imagine happens to you. That you get visions.”

“You’re wrong.” Not visions. Memories. I should tell him now. I could explain so he understands. Instead, all I manage is, “The reality of it isn’t as heroic as you make it sound.”

“I speak what I see,” he says.

It’s quiet, too gentle for this place of tombs and death. His honesty flusters me and I’m achi

ngly aware of how close we are, how warm his skin is against mine, and I have to pull away before I ruin us. He lets me go, but his fingertips linger over my skin, a subtle reminder that I am choosing this separation, not him.

“They’re not visions,” I explain from a safer distance away. “I wish they were. They’re...visitations.”

I can’t meet his gaze after admitting the truth. Instead, I inspect my clothes. The shirt is a disgusting mess that should be burned, and my breeches will need a good wash if they’re to survive.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

The calm, even tone of his voice is what gives me the courage to continue. “Some deaths aren’t clean. They go against nature or leave incomplete works behind and I... Sometimes I see the shades they create and they ask me for help—”

“Shades,” he interrupts. “Meaning spirits of the dead. And they came to you tonight?” When he goes quiet, I finally dare a glance his way. He’s glaring at the ground, expression dark and furious, and when he speaks again, I hear the bear’s growl in his words. “Did they hurt you?”

“No. Not intentionally. They were trying to warn me.”

“What kind of warning requires them to possess you?”

That’s what’s bothering him so deeply? “Keir,” I murmur, “they aren’t possessing me.”