Crown of salt, p.1
Crown of Salt, page 1
part #4 of Faerie Lords Series
Crown of Salt
(Faerie Lords, Book 4)
Isabella August
Copyright © 2019 by Isabella August
https://isabellaaugust.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and stories are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons (living or dead), organizations, and events is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are consenting adults of ages 18 years of age or older.
This book is for adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Crown of Whispers
Acknowledgments
Connect With Isabella
Appendix: The Zodiac
Also by Isabella August
Chapter 1
More than a hundred years after losing her soul to a faerie lord, Valentine Ellis returned home to die.
Time was a strange thing when you had too much of it. It had been many decades since Valentine had seen Kingston upon Hull. When she’d first left, it had been a bustling shipping port, full of life. Maybe fifty years ago, she’d visited out of idle curiosity, and found it falling apart. Tonight, as she staggered her way out of the Hidden Path from faerie and into Hull’s quiet, foggy streets, she saw signs of a half-hearted modern recovery that hadn’t quite taken. The buildings were nicer than they had been, at least, and the air wasn’t quite so tinged with hopelessness.
Valentine stumbled away from the boardwalk, deeper into the city. Away from the ocean, she thought dimly. I’ll die on dry ground, thank you very much.
Hot, sticky blood dripped between her fingers where she held them against her chest, matting in the already-tangled strands of her long black hair. Her body was cold, but that wasn’t indicative of much — since binding herself to the Drowned Lord and accepting the Deeps into her soul, she’d been numb to much of the world. Still, her vision had begun to blur, and she thought that must have been an excellent indicator that something had finally injured her badly enough to steal her from the faerie lord’s dark grasp.
Her booted feet swerved on the sidewalk. She caught herself against a wall, her breath heavy in her chest. As she glanced up, she realized that her path wasn’t quite as aimless as she’d tried to convince herself it was. The tall old steeple of Holy Trinity rose ahead through the fog, taunting her with a last, bittersweet mixture of emotions.
Valentine clutched at the ivory crucifix that still hung around her neck. An old, familiar magic within it responded to her call, soothing what little remained of her fears. Normally, that magic told her: You shall endure. Whatever happens, at least you will survive. But tonight, it told her only: You shall finally get your rest.
God might have abandoned her long ago. But there was a certain symmetry to the fact that she’d used His symbols of suffering to keep herself sane.
She wasn’t destined to reach Holy Trinity. Her knees hit the ground, and she blinked in surprise. Her cheek soon pressed against the cold, wet pavement, and she closed her eyes.
It wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t bliss. But it was the end — and that was something, at least.
That bastard will have to find someone else to do his dirty work. The thought of the Drowned Lord’s annoyance put a distant smile on her face as nothing else had done so far.
As darkness slowly closed in, however, she felt a soft nudge at her fingers. Something snuffled near her ear, then gave a high whimper. Footsteps followed nearby. Someone knelt down beside her, sliding hands carefully beneath her body to turn her over. The person above her hissed in a breath, and Valentine slitted her eyes open curiously.
The man kneeling next to her was slender, with a delicate cast to his pale features. He was wearing a gently pinstriped oxford shirt and trousers, and the sort of expensively-fitted tweed jacket that somehow managed to look even more casual for its high price. His short hair was a strange, snowy white — but his eyes were currently two soft red pin-pricks of light, staring down at her in the darkness.
Valentine laughed, hoarse and weak.
Probably the only vampire in Hull, and I found him.
“Tonight’s… your lucky night… leech,” Valentine gasped through labored breaths. Her old, broad Hull accent slipped back to her as she spoke. “'Ave a free meal.”
A wet nose nudged into her hand again. There was a large, shaggy black dog nuzzling at her with concern.
“You need a hospital,” the man above her said softly. His accent was jarringly cultured. If the Received Pronunciation were to take human form, Valentine thought, it would sound an awful lot like the tweed-ridden leech that currently knelt next to her, taking her bloody hand gently in his own. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” His hand trembled though, and she knew it wasn’t with fear or disgust. Even if he’d fed recently, his hunger had to be tempted by the blood that currently soaked her.
“Don’t bother.” Valentine gave a shaky laugh. Her fingers closed weakly on his. “I won’t make it… to a hospital.” That was the point, after all.
Those red eyes flared with alarm, and she closed her eyes again, vaguely triumphant. Somewhere beneath the cold feel of the Deeps, she remembered to feel a hint of fear — but it was surprisingly calming, having that hand on hers.
This isn’t the worst, Valentine thought hazily. The simple presence of another human being did more for her peace of mind than she might have expected.
A strange warmth spread through her body where those strong, elegant fingers threaded through hers. Valentine shivered with delight and confusion. I can’t remember the last time I felt warmth, she thought. Maybe the Deeps have lost their hold, now that I’m finally dying.
The vampire released her hand abruptly, and Valentine let out a faint whimper in spite of herself. He slid his arms beneath her body though, cradling her close to his chest. “Don’t give up,” he whispered to her. “There’s still hope.”
Valentine turned her face against his chest at the suggestion. Not for me, she thought with a tired, sinking feeling. Never for me. But she didn’t have the strength left to say the words aloud.
The last shreds of Hull slipped away into darkness.
Maybe, she thought longingly, death would just be like dreaming.
“…and ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low… who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow…”
Warm, golden candles burned away at the darkness of the night, glittering upon the stained glass windows of Holy Trinity. Men and women sat in the pews, their heads bowed, their eyes shining with the understanding of this hushed, sacred Yuletide moment. The choir sang on, their voices mixing on the air.
But as always, it was Valentine’s clear and ardent tones that rose above the rest.
“Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing,” she sang. “O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!”
Her mother’s face looked out from the crowd, shining with pride. Sidney Ellis sat next to her, dressed in his holiday best. He looked every bit as enchanted; his dark eyes met Valentine’s across the church, and something about his expression made her flush with delight.
“For lo! the days are hastening on, by prophet bards foretold — when with the ever-circling years, comes round the age of gold!” Voices swelled around her, rising in a final crescendo. “When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling; and the whole world give back the song which now the angels sing!”
The last of the song echoed through the church, lingering on the air. There was no clapping — that sort of thing was discouraged during something so somber as the Christmas service — but appreciative murmurs rippled through the audience nonetheless.
Valentine’s breath came hard in her chest as she stepped off the stairs, but it was a good feeling. The joyous sense of a meaningful, well-executed performance stayed with her as her mother came to take her hands.
“God bless’d you for an angel,” Valentine’s mother sighed. “I never get tired o’ hearin’ you sing.”
“Nor I,” Sidney said quietly, just behind her. Valentine ducked her eyes shyly as his gaze focused on her intently. Sidney Ellis was well-dressed, well-spoken, and really terribly handsome, with his dark eyes and sharp features. She knew many of the other women in the choir would have given their right hand to have Sidney say something so sweet to them.
“Thank you,” Valentine murmured. “You’re too kind.”
“No indeed,” Sidney said, with a smile playing over his lips. “I am being quite selfish.” He stepped past her mother to take her hand in his, lifting it gently to his lip
Valentine’s breath stuttered. She blinked quickly. “I… um…”
Her mother swatted gently at Sidney. “Have some respect for th’ Lord’s house,” she said — but her eyes were twinkling. “You come by tomorrow, young sir, an’ we’ll ‘ave some proper tea. Maybe Valentine will sing you a song or two, if you’re truly kind.”
Sidney met Valentine’s eyes over the back of her hand. His smile made her feel faint and giddy. “I shall practice my manners then, assuredly,” he said.
Valentine woke up — much to her disappointment.
Her chest still hurt terribly. It was a dull ache now though, and not a sharp, stabbing pain. Her old wool jacket was missing, along with her shirt. Someone had done a very neat job of stitching up her injuries, and had ensured her modesty with a suspiciously expensive old oxford shirt. The ivory crucifix around her neck was utterly untouched, which struck her now as a strangeness.
Moonlight still swam through the window next to her, though a false dawn had begun at the edges of the sky. She’d been laid out upon a soft feather bed in what she suspected to be a guest room. The furniture was nice enough, but there were no personal effects anywhere, and everything seemed overall far too neat.
Her bleary eyes fell upon a pale figure on the floor next to the bed. The man who’d carried her back was all but collapsed on the rug there. His eyes were closed, and his breathing seemed labored. His snowy white hair was quite mussed now, and his tweed jacket was missing. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his own oxford shirt — there was dried blood on his hands which she much suspected to be her own. Even as she watched, he shivered on the floor, curling into himself with a faint groan.
Valentine forced herself unsteadily upright. Her vision wavered dangerously, but she ignored it in order to stand stubbornly free of the bed. Slowly, she reached down for the man on the floor.
His red eyes opened instantly as she leaned down near to him. He winced painfully, pulling back from her, and she realized that her crucifix had fallen from her borrowed shirt.
“…so sorry,” he murmured weakly. His tone was still so cheerfully polite and upperclass that she had to resist the urge to kick him. “I seem to have a bit of an allergy to your jewelry.”
“An’ you still forced yourself to stitch me up?” Valentine muttered acidly. “Got something wrong in th’ head, do you?”
“Oh, plenty,” he laughed into the floor. He had such a pleasant laugh, for a man who’d just dragged her kicking and screaming back to life without properly asking first. He looked absolutely miserable, curled up and shaking on the floor, but he sounded so damned chipper, all the same.
Valentine closed her fingers around the crucifix at her neck. Most vampires would find the iconography desperately uncomfortable, even nauseating. The fact that he’d been able to touch her at all while she was wearing it was impressive. He had to be possessed of a very singular discipline, if not also a superhuman endurance.
Why he’d bothered to put himself to such awful trouble on her behalf, of course, was an absolute mystery.
Valentine’s fingers hesitated on the crucifix. The idea of removing her best protection against the vampire in front of her didn’t faze her in the least. The fool had already stymied her death once — there was little worse he could do to her at this point. But in more than a hundred years, Valentine had never taken the crucifix from her neck. She wasn’t sure what sort of person she might be, without the sense of desperate stability she had imbued within it.
Nevertheless, she thought. I’ll have no decent conversation with him while I wear it.
She sighed, and tugged the crucifix over her head, stashing it out of view within the drawer of a bedside table.
Dark, terrible dread crept into her heart, where it had once been held at bay. I should have died. I wanted to die. Why must even that be taken from me?
The man on the floor closed his eyes, breathing in slowly. His hands still shook, but she saw him gather himself slowly in the absence of the crucifix. He pushed himself up to a seated position with a wry, helpless smile. “And here I am, stealing you away to my home without a proper introduction. My deepest apologies. My name is Percival. Percy, if you prefer.”
He offered out one bloody hand — blinked quickly, as he saw the mess. Valentine took his hand anyway, before he could retract it. His fingers were long and delicate, but she knew there was a steely strength to them when he so preferred. His touch was cold, as she’d known it would be. But she could have sworn that there had been a real, true warmth to his touch before. Had that been a hallucination?
“Is something the matter?” Percy asked her curiously. “Other than the obvious, of course.”
Valentine frowned. “Your hand is cold,” she said bluntly. “It wasn’t ‘afore, was it?”
Percy tilted his head at her. “Oh,” he said. “Perhaps.” And then he soldiered on, as though she’d said nothing at all. “May I be so bold as to ask your name? Or at least something to call you by, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Do you always use so many words to say so little?” Valentine muttered, irritated.
Percy laughed again. “The curse of academia,” he said. “Too many years at Oxford will destroy your ability to speak like a normal fellow, and give you a big head to boot.”
“Hm.” Valentine frowned at him, annoyed. “People call me Pallid Valentine. I serve th’ Drowned Lord. I was about to exit his employ, ‘afore you interrupted me.”
Percy blinked. His fingers tightened on hers imperceptibly, and she felt his strength again. “A faerie warlock, then,” he said. “But you can’t possibly mean that you wanted to die? That’s a beast of a way to quit your employer.”
Valentine tugged her hand back. She felt him intentionally slacken his grip — the only reason she was able to escape him, she was sure. “What d’you care? You never met me ‘afore now. How I quit my employer doesn’t seem any business of yours.”
Percy raised his eyebrows at her. “You decided to bleed out at my feet,” he said, and there was a hint of steel in his voice this time. “I call that rather my business, my dear Valentine. I do not, in general, think of myself as the sort to step over a dying woman’s body.”
“I am not your dear—” Valentine wobbled on her feet, as anger made her blood rush to her head.
Percy reached his feet with a truly dangerous speed. He caught her gently against him, his eyes still flashing with a hint of red.
Valentine rested her forehead against his shoulder, mainly out of necessity. Her body trembled at the abuse she had put it through, no matter how she tried to force it back under her control.
Percy’s shirt was neatly-starched against her skin. He smelled of something clear and clean and overwhelming — it took Valentine a long moment to place the scent as wintergreen.
“Quite all right?” he asked her softly. She found herself oddly struck by the pleasant timbre of his voice — the feel of his arm around her back, holding her up.
A truly terrible thought struck her then.
He reminds me of Sidney.
Valentine shoved at his chest, but her strength was nothing like it should have been. Percy’s frown deepened, and he helped her sit gently back upon the bed. “You’re quite weak,” he said. “I’ll be honest, you probably shouldn’t have survived. But you have done — just barely — and so I doubt you’ll be walking on your own for a while to come.” He smiled ruefully at her. “I suppose I’ll ask your forgiveness, rather than your thanks. You live in spite of your druthers, my dear Valentine.”
Valentine set her jaw. “If you call me that one more time,” she promised, “I will make you regret it.”
