Page 158 of Nightshade

“Mercy!” she cried out, and as the bishop covered her face with his palm and dipped her beneath the surface of the water, all around her stilled.

The world turned calm again.

Silent.

49

The Baron

Wind sliced past Jericho’s wings, as he flew over the carriage which held the bishop. Horses galloped along either side of the coach, members of the Pentacrux guarding the man on what would be his last trek to Rome. Under the cover of night, he flew swiftly above the trees, adjacent to the road, his black wings quiet and stealthy against the dark sky. The plan was to wait until he reached a stretch of road known for nightly attacks, but Jericho could hardly wait.

He had already waited long enough.

The bishop and his men would die that night, and Jericho would finally be free to flee with his Lustina. The sooner he carried out his assassination, the quicker such freedom would come to pass.

He swooped down from the sky, and as fast as lightning struck, he seized the first soldier, tearing him from his horse’s saddle, only to break his neck midair. When he released the body, it fell upon the second soldier, who flanked the opposite side of the carriage. As he veered off the path, Jericho followed. Every one of them had to die, after all, if he were to make it seem like a raid.

The wayward horse slipped into a patch of trees, and while arrows sliced toward Jericho, drawn by the two remaining soldiers, he trailed after the escaping Pentacrux soldier. Through the treetops, he watched the soldier’s horse trample over fallen brush, until its leg tangled on a branch and the beast tumbled with its rider. The soldier pushed to his feet, limping, eyes watching the sky. Jericho stalked him for a moment, then touched down on the forest bed well ahead of him, cloaking himself in his dark wings in the surrounding, shadowy forest. As the soldier raced toward him, Jericho removed his dagger and struck out, slicing the soldier’s throat.

He then took to the sky once more.

The remaining soldiers kept alongside the carriage, their arrows whizzing past Jericho as he followed behind. When he neared, he brought his wings in tight and barreled toward the carriage, spinning like a vortex. He plowed into a soldier’s back, sending him flying forward to land on the ground with a hard thud. The carriage trampled him and, in doing so, came unhitched from its horses. It swerved and toppled over.

Jericho landed a short distance off, and as he strode toward the fallen carriage, which held his prey, the last of the soldiers sent an arrow flying toward him.

He caught it midflight.

The soldier’s eyes widened.

Jericho flipped the arrow around and sent the head of it sailing back toward the soldier. Before he could escape its inevitable destination, the arrow pierced the man between his eyes and he collapsed to the ground.

Jericho approached the carriage, wings spread wide and ready. For years, the man tormented him into showing his true form, and now, he would see. In his final hours, the bishop would know the aberrant monster who would show him the same mercy as he’d shown a young boy over the years.

The carriage door swung open, and Jericho drew back his hand, but halted mid-strike.

It wasn’t the bishop who emerged, but the young friar, whose hands were tied, his mouth sealed by needle and thread.

Shock punched his chest as Jericho caught the stumbling Felix in his arms and glanced about for the bishop. At the quiet moans of the friar, he sliced through the threads with his dagger.

“Save her,” he rasped.

Not a second later, the tip of an arrow sliced through the friar’s forehead. Jericho looked up to see another member of Pentacrux, one who must’ve hidden in the carriage, running toward the forest, but he didn’t bother with him.

Panic swelled in his chest as he lowered the friar to the ground then took to the skies.

Back to Praecepsia.

* * *

The river! The river!

A cacophony of voices called out to him, as Jericho flew through the woods. Tree branches snapped across his legs, as he hovered low, eyes searching the ground below. The canopy opened onto a clearing, in which he found the river.

In the surrounding darkness lay a figure of white, and as he descended toward it, he could see the delicate fabric floating on the water’s surface, dancing around Lustina’s sleeping face. He touched down at the river’s edge, every muscle in his body wound tight.

Immeasurable dread and disbelief curled through him like a thorned vine, tearing across his heart, as he trudged through the shallows that splashed around his boots. On a shaken breath, he lifted her cold and limp body from the water, the fabric dripping as he carried her to the bank of the river and sank to his knees.

Her face blurred behind a shield of tears, while he lay her in his lap and stroked her pale, angelic face. “Lustina,” he whispered, before kissing lips that no longer held the warmth of life. “Wake for me.”