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He glanced up to see Zoya, his sixteen-year-old stepsister’s wide eyes watching him. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to do this.
Zoya clutched her elbows, her black hair streaming down in tangled streaks, her body trembling. “What about Mother and Father?”
Rothbart swore, worry turning his abdomen. She was right. They needed to check on them.
“Get my belt,” he told Zoya, nodding over to where it draped over the divan. Her eyes grew even wider, and she brought it to him. He flipped the beautiful dark-haired assassin onto her stomach. Her curly hair had come loose and splayed over the covers. This time, she groaned. She was definitely in pain. He wrapped the belt around her hands, creating a new hole in the leather to bind her tight.
Then he lifted her and slung her over his shoulder. As her abdomen came into contact with Rothbart’s shoulder, a sharp gasp escaped from her. He latched his arms over her legs, holding her steady. If anything, maybe his father would have some creative interrogation techniques to get her to speak.
As they moved into the hall, they found the two other swans from Zoya’s bedchamber, waddling about, flapping. The tightness in Rothbart’s chest eased a little. The spell had worked as intended. If someone had gone after his mother and father, they’d also be swans by now. Hopefully, when they reached their parents’ room, they’d find everything okay.
Zoya stayed close to him as they climbed the stairs. Occasionally, she glanced fearfully at the woman he carried and his blood boiled all over again. He could feel the woman. Her whole body was tense as she fought to hold as still as possible. Every once in a while she’d suck in a sharp breath, but that was all he heard out of her. A loathing moved through him for the tiny ounce of admiration he felt for her impressive restraint.
A rock sank in Rothbart’s gut when he saw the swan outside of his parents’ room, its white feathers and black feet covered in blood.
“Mother, Father!” his sister cried as she rushed past him.
“Zoya, wait,” Rothbart shouted, but she’d already disappeared through the open doorway.
The scream that followed confirmed his worst fears. He charged into the bedchamber and ground to a halt as he stared in horror at the scene before him.
The room was frozen in a bloody tomb of death.
Stellyta, his stepmother, was in her bed. Crimson covered her throat and soaked into the surrounding bedsheets. His father lay on the floor in his own pool of blood, a giant wound in his chest. Another woman in black clothes sat against the wall, a sword through her heart, her eyes open and glassy.
Rothbart stumbled, a strange buzzing lancing through his skull.No.
He dumped the woman over his shoulder onto the floor and raced for his father. He felt for breath and checked for a pulse, but it was clear his father was long gone. His throat closed off, and a burning started behind his eyes. Leaning over the man who had raised him, he spoke the words of honor for sorcerers who have passed on. “May the magic within you carry you to the blessed land,” he whispered in remembrance.
Zoya collapsed over her mother’s body, blood soaking into her gown as she lay sobbing. Hearing her cries, Rothbart forced himself to his feet and moved to her side.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Zoya,” he said gently.
Her fingers dug into Stellyta’s crimson stained nightgown. “She’s not dead. She can’t be dead. Ineedher.”
He took her arm and tugged her, trying to separate her from her deceased mother, but that only made the girl cling tighter. “No, no, no, no.”
Rothbart released her and spun away, unable to stand her naked grief. He slammed a fist into the mirror of the nearby vanity. It shattered under his force, the glass slicing into this skin, cutting his knuckles open. He turned to where he’d dumped the woman. He would kill her. He would kill all of them.
He paused, surprised to see the woman had crawled across the floor to the dead assassin. She’d laid her head on the woman’s shoulder and stared at the distant wall, a watery sheen in her eyes.
He stomped over to her, the glass still embedded in his hand, the blood dripping from his fingertips. She didn’t get to grieve. She had no right to grieve. He ripped the shard from between his knuckles and held it so tight it sliced into the skin of his palm. It took an hour for the swan sigil he’d placed inside her chest to fully lock his curse into place. He could still cut it out of her.
Then he’d drag the shard in his hand across her throat and she’d be gone. Like his parents. Like she would have done to him without a thought of remorse. Like she had probably done to so many others.
She stared up at him, no fear in her gaze. It was a look of… understanding. She tipped her head back and shut her eyes. A tear leaked down her brown skin.
A shiver ran through him at the sight of her willing submission. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. Rothbart was no killer. He turned away, unsure if his restraint was a sign of weakness or strength.
She hadn’t transformed yet, like the others, because she bore the anchor. But with his magic, he’d rectify that. He began to chant. A small cry sounded behind him and the sharp snap of bones reached his ears as his magic flowed out of him and into her.
Changing her.
When he finished, another swan stood next to the slain assassin.
He still needed this woman. He needed all of his swans. These were nothing but mercenaries. Someone had hired them. He had to find out who. His fingers curled, feeling his own slick warm blood and the sting of his cuts grounding him in his determination.
And then Rothbart would seek his revenge.
