Page 10 of Cursebreaker

I attempt to swallow, but my tongue feels like sandpaper. “Take me to him.”

Henry shakes his head, his expression severe. “Absolutely not.”

“Henry,” I ask hoarsely. “Please.”

He squeezes my arm, his grip firm. “If he hurts you again…” His voice is low and menacing, and I think of the young noble I met when I first arrived at Bludgrave Manor—the boy who threatened to kill me with a single look. Only, his anger isn’t directed at me.

“He won’t.”

“He almost killed you,” he argues, shaking me slightly, his probing stare searching my eyes, my face, my throat. “He would have killed you.”

I open my mouth to say, No, he wouldn’t have, but I can still feel his weight pinning me to the deck—still feel his teeth tearing at my neck. Instead I say, “But he didn’t.” It’s a weak excuse, and I don’t know why I defend him, but… I know what it’s like to lose control, to act on impulses I would otherwise ignore.

And after what happened during the battle—the voice that urged me to kill, to spill blood—it could have been me that attacked someone, just like Will.

Henry frowns. “Not this time.” And then, as if he’s sensed where my thoughts have gone, he adds, “Aster, if you’re having difficulties controlling your own bloodlust—”

“I’m not,” I say quickly, but shame burns my throat, flushing my cheeks.

He hesitates. “If you were,” he clarifies, “I wouldn’t judge you. You’re a Nightweaver—it’s to be expected.”

I almost laugh. “To be expected?” I scoff. “I don’t think any of this is to be expected.”

His eyes crinkle with something akin to sympathy. “If you had been raised in a Nightweaver household, you might think differently. All Nightweavers are brought up knowing that on their eighteenth birthday, there must be certain precautions.”

My stomach sours. “Precautions?”

He nods. “All Nightweavers receive a surge of Manan on their eighteenth birthday. Some believe it’s a blessing from the True King. But it’s also the one day in every Nightweaver’s life that the bloodlust is most difficult to control, and for that, some think it’s a curse.” His eyes darken with a memory. “Will’s birthday was… especially difficult. He’s always had trouble managing his bloodlust, even before—” His throat bobs. “Before he was cursed.”

I was in the throes of my fever, fighting off my own transformation, when the others learned about Will’s affliction, after he awoke in the brig the night we escaped Castle Grim, steeped in the blood of his victims. I wasn’t there when Henry and Lady Isabelle learned of Lord Bludgrave’s death, and Annie’s capture, and Will’s curse, but I see it in Henry’s gaze as he studies my face—the grief, the vigilance.

“I can’t lose you, too,” he whispers as a tear slips onto his cheek, following the groove of the cruel, jagged scar that carves down his face, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

I throw my arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. “You’re not going to lose me.”

He hugs me impossibly close, his tears streaming down the back of my neck. Quiet sobs rack his body, and for a while, we just hold each other, unspoken words passed between us—assurances, apologies, promises. Finally, he draws back, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re only saying what you think I want to hear so I’ll take you to the brig.”

I use the hem of my sleeve to gently wipe the tears from his face, and wink. “Pirate, remember?”

The activity aboard the Starchaser lulls as Charlie cleans the blood from the main deck, and when I emerge from the captain’s quarters and spot Lewis at the helm, his gaze fixed on the horizon, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

He meets my gaze from across the way. Salutes me.

I point at Charlie, frown. Lewis shrugs, shaking his head.

Aboard the Lightbringer, Charlie always insisted on clearing the deck after a battle. Now as he kneels, scrubbing, he doesn’t even look up when we pass, his brow furrowed—focused. It doesn’t look like he’s slept, and if I know my brother, he probably won’t rest until the Starchaser is spotless. But Will showed no discretion when he slaughtered the Bloodknights, and I notice splatters of crimson in difficult-to-reach places, bits of flesh that will have to be scraped from the wood—a task that could take days, especially if he insists on working alone.

I almost turn back and order Charlie to take a break, but I know he won’t listen, so I force myself to keep going, one step after another, as Henry escorts me to the brig.

“No,” is all Gabriel says when he sees us descending the steps.

He blocks our path, his massive frame obscuring my view of the cells below.

“She’s still pale from the loss of blood,” he says, gesturing at me before crossing his arms, fixing Henry with a disapproving look. “She should be in bed.”

Henry sets his jaw, glaring at Gabriel, and I’m reminded of the last time they squared their shoulders at each other—reminded of how much Henry detests being told no. “Don’t you think I—”