Page 53 of Beauty

But I want the corpses. Yes. They will do nicely.

“Getting us some backup.” I call to them, reaching out withmy mind, tendrils of power flowing like a cool river, sweeping up the dead inits wake.

I ignore the smaller creatures. Rats who died crawl oncemore, birds fly, and cats hiss from long-dead mouths. But I’m concerned withthe mausoleums. Yes. My power seeks the places of the dead.

I fought the power, but now I embrace it. I open myself toit, welcoming the rush of sensation that comes with it. I know them. As I callto them, so they speak to me.

Sir Bran Jenkins lays on his cold slab, a sword clutched inhis hands, placed there by his sons and his widow that he might fight on in theafterlife. Sir Bran wants to fight. It ran through his veins when he was alive,and though he no longer has blood, the desire clings to his bones more stronglythan any shroud.

His sons, both taken not long after, lie in the crypt closeto their father.

A family of warriors with nothing left but useless swordsthat will never again sing with the heat of battle.

Then fight, Sir Bran. Take up your sword. Wake up yoursons. Fight for me.

I call to them, sending my message out to the quiet mass ofdead. Ears long since past hearing listen, perking up, ghastly smiles formingon lipless faces. I feel them rising from their stone beds or clawing up fromthe ground.

And I hear the cries of the living who suffer the horriblefate of coming into contact with my army of dead.

The phooka scrambles down the tree, his long tail twitching,amber eyes enormous in the afternoon light. “You’ve been busy, Your Highness.It seems the dead walk again.”

“The dead fight again.” I correct him.

“Whatever they’re doing, it’s working. Go quickly, YourHighnesses. Your princess is in a bad way. She’s surrounded by fire. The flamesrefuse to touch her, but I cannot say the same for the smoke. The battle is allaround her. Hurry.”

Shim takes off, sword in hand. I follow, my mind working intwo directions—saving Bronwyn and keeping control of my creatures. I feel themfighting, send them images of guards. Kill the guards. Leave everyone else.

We race past buildings, small structures, the place markersof a small, poor village. Mud huts and thatched roofs surrounded us. Bron livedhere, is dying here, when she should have had two palaces to choose from.

All around me are the sounds of battle. Grunts and groansand the creaking of limbs as they move, trying to protect hearts and heads andbellies from opponents’ swords. Screams can be heard over the clanging of metalagainst metal. Cries of terror. Pleas for the dead to go back to their graves.

I feel the heat from the fire before I can see it. I stop inmy tracks, my mind flying back to that day. I don’t remember much except theheat and pain, and the deep need to save my brother from both.

I can’t go there. I force my attention to the present. Eventhat one small lapse cost me. My corpses fell to the ground. The guards whoremain stand staring down as though utterly surprised by their victories.

Bron. Bron is in the middle of it all. I see her for thefirst time. Her skin is pink from the heat, sweat coating her as she hangslimply from the pole they attached her to. I clutch my sword, my heartthreatening to fail. Her black hair hangs around her face, lips as red as anyrose but just as unmoving. We’re too late.

Shim elbows a guard who seems to realize that the dead arenot the only opponents.

“Get back to yer houses.” The guard shoves at my brother,but before Shim hits the dirt, the guard is on fire, his tunic going up like atorch.

I clutch the sword in my hand. It’s mostly for decoration,though both Shim and I received instruction. But now, as the world seems tocrash around me, instinct courses through my body. My corpse warriors arereviving now that I have control of myself. I’ll kill them all. They took myprincess, my mate, the only woman in the world who can bridge the halves ofmyself. They murdered her, and now they will pay.

Rage rises, adrenaline coursing through me. I send it out,my corpses popping back up to the horror of the guards. Finally, finally I knowwho I am. I am the warrior, never tested, never allowed to battle as is myright. Never allowed to slaughter my enemies.

“You, young sidhe. Take up that sword. Defend me,”says a sweaty man in clothing far too elegant for an agricultural town. “Thewitch has done this. We must kill the witch.”

I don’t even think about it. I skewer the repugnant man,thrusting my sword deep into the man’s belly. He wears a broach with whatappears to be the village’s crest. The mayor, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. Hehad a hand in Bronwyn’s death.

I can kill the whole village. I pull my sword free as alarge guard attacks. It’s easy now that I’ve given in to my purest instincts. Ifought for so long. I fought the death magic, and I fought this deep desirethat forms the core truth of Lachlan McIver.

I’m an animal, an instrument of pure death.

I let go. There’s nothing but vengeance now. I’ll fight andfight until someone puts me down. This plane took my Bronwyn, and it will runred with blood. I don’t care who I kill as long as I continued to kill.

I move my sword. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of mymind, I realize that my warriors are following me now. When I move my sword,slicing through a guard’s neck, my warriors do the same, a grandlychoreographed dance of death.

Something warm and rich-smelling coats my hand. Blood. Sweetblood. My fangs are out, practically crying for a taste. Another part of myselfI buried. I feel something hit my back. An ache begins but I ignore it. I reacharound and toss the man aside, his big body hitting the dirt. He’s vulnerable,helpless, his throat wide open because his helm is gone. It would be so sweetto drain the guard dry, to drink him down until his legs stop twitching, hisblood strengthening me.