Page 36 of The Night Prince 6

He never did.

But his father needed him. Though Vex didn’t know that. And Vex wasn’t going to come to him.

No.

Declan had to meet him in the darkness and the despair where he was. He had to join him. But that meant he must step away from Aquilan for a moment. He hoped that the kiss conveyed that he would return.

Not alone, Declan sent to his father over their mental bond.

He heard nothing back, but he did not expect to. His father wouldn’t–couldn’t–hear him down there. One of the masses of strangers in the darkness who knew his story–or thought they did–and watched history unfolding like some sort of play for their entertainment or edification. So he gave Aquilan one more kiss and then leaped lightly onto the stage. This was really the only way to get him up in front of a group of people. Only one way to make himself the center of attention.

He’d only do it to rescue someone.

Cynda and the rest of the band appeared to be in a kind of trance. All of the humans were. Only a few–like the Bastons and Finley–were spared this magical enchantment. More proof that Vex had–consciously or not–meant for them to see, hear and know his older brother’s fate and a formative act in his own life.

His father was on his knees, eyes closed, head thrown back, guitar cradled in his arms, seemingly as lost as the humans were. But Declan knew his father was keenly aware of him and was wondering what Declan intended to do.

You showed me your pain. I will show you mine, Declan sent. And then you will see, you are not alone.

Don’t do it, Declan! He heard Rhalyf cry out in his head.

Declan’s eyes found his cousin in the crowd. Alarm was written large in his cousin’s face. He understood why. But this wasn’t the time for half-measures or cleverness. Vex had disclosed something to them. And they either responded in kind or they would lose this moment forever. Declan had no intention of losing.

It would be all right. Or maybe it wouldn’t. But he had to do this.

He took the microphone from Cynda. She moved back, taking another microphone and standing there like a backup singer, waiting for his direction. Contrary to what all likely thought, Declan could sing and even liked to. So long as he was his only audience. In the tower of the Venomthorn, he had often sung to himself. His own voice echoing off the sheer stone walls. A small comfort in a cold, dark world.

He had no idea if he could carry a tune. Or if he was any good to listen to. But that was not the point. This song would tell a story that only his father and friends would hear that night. He was certain that even if the humans weren’t spelled to forget it all, Rhalyf could help block out any terrible performance from their minds.

He hoped that was true anyways. But regardless, he was doing this.

His lips parted and the first note rose out of him. Deep and pure and filled with love and loss. His eyes shut. He forgot where he was. Who he was. He let the magic conjure two women, both very different, but with the same brave, good hearts: Alexia and Ashryn. His mothers. Both dead. Because of him. Because of… the Leviathan.

He sank into the song and the memories that bubbled up within him effortlessly now. He was only vaguely aware of the band starting to play, of Cynda providing backup vocals, and, finally, of his father’s electric guitar joining in, following a lead he didn’t even know he was offering.

Sunlight filtered through the half-closed blinds of the Wilde household half a decade ago, but now the present moment. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams. Alexia stood at the kitchen sink with her favorite kitchen knife–his Krith–in her right hand. She was cutting thick slabs of aged cheddar cheese and apple slices for herself. Not just for herself. For both of them.

He was always hungry, especially right after school where it took so much energy to be around all those people, and–though he didn’t know it–all that light. But Declan had been delayed, talking to Finley. Not that she was worried about his lateness. He would come home soon. There was nothing to fear in Lightwell.

She hummed and chopped happily. Certain that he would be there soon and they would share their pre-dinner snack out on the front porch’s swing. She’d tell him about her day and ask about his, to which he would make a few grunts. Not that he didn’t want to talk to her, but because there was nothing very interesting that happened at the high school to report. At least, nothing he found interesting. And words had never been his friends. He loved simply listening to her and the squeak of the swing while the fall wind whispered past them.

Whether this was memory or vision or just supposition he didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Because it would have happened just like this or so similarly to it as to make no difference.

A shadow passed behind her. Perhaps there was a noise, too. Leviathan scales scraping over linoleum. But she would have mistaken it for him coming in the front door. Even as the hair on the back of her neck rose up, she would have turned with the tray of cheese and apples in her hands, a bright smile on her face, lips parted, ready to greet him.

The tray fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor, dumping its contents everywhere. He remembered when he found her that his foot had slid as he’d stepped on an apple slice, turning it to sweet and sticky mush beneath the heel of one boot. She’d been surrounded by what was familiar and unfamiliar. Her blood made cheese slices into islands in a red sea.

For she did not see him at the door. He was not there to greet her and toss his backpack on the kitchen island. He was not there…

She likely couldn’t see the door at all through the Leviathan’s smoky coils. It would have stood there, hovered there, filled floor to ceiling with shifting, shimmering, oily coils wreathed in pitch black smoke.

Staring at her.

The Leviathan didn’t have eyes yet they did. They could see. They did see. They peered inside of their prey. And they smiled without mouths. But they smiled nonetheless.

He imagined that she knew what it was. Not the name of the creature, of course. But that it was from the place that he had come from. That it was from the Under Dark. A plane where monsters ruled in the unending blackness.

She’d been waiting for years for someone to come get him. But she’d likely thought it would be another silver-haired, red-eyed, pointy-eared Kindreth. Maybe she’d believed it would be Vulre himself again. Had that blasted Blood Knight even told her his name? Or had he simply shoved Declan towards her with a grunted explanation: take the child you have always dreamed of. Make sure he is not in the Sun too long. Ensure that no one looks too closely at him. For he is a dream to you, but a nightmare to everyone else.