Chapter 51 Poison and Aftermath

Chapter 51 Poison and Aftermath
Varek

Fiona's fur shimmers away as she turns back into her human form, lying in a pool of blood. The black sheen of the poison already threads through her veins, racing up her arms, pulsing at her throat.

“No,” I drop beside her. My hands shake as I press against the wound, hot blood sliding through my fingers.

Lucian's body lies nearby. My wolf wants to rip him apart, but he's no longer breathing. No blood pools beneath his body, nor the few that are behind him. They're just dead. There's the scent of flint against rock, but no fire nearby. Just beyond Fiona's outstretched hand is a vial of antidote. I grab it, wrench it open, and lift her head, pouring it down her throat and coaxing her to swallow.

Goddess, please, let it not be too late. The stench of Lucian's poisoned blade lingers in my nose. The scent of it was all too familiar. It was the same poison that had nearly ended me years ago. A memory flashes through my mind of cold lips whispering vows and a kiss laced with betrayal. The old wound started to ache as I remembered the days of writhing agony as my body fought not to die.

If I needed any other confirmation that Lucian had been plotting against me, this was it.

A second dose of it would kill me, no matter how much antidote I took. No one but the healers should have known my particular weakness to this poison; not even Ronan knew. I glare at his corpse, resentful that his death, however it had happened, had been quick. I watch Fiona closely, keeping a hand on her wound. She’s pale, her lips blue, blood seeping at a steady pace when she should be healing.

I glance at Lucian's blood-stained blade and grab it, sniffing it and cursing. It's silver laced. Between the poison and the silver, her healing alone isn't going to be enough to close the wound. She needed bandages and medicine.

I lay her down, searching through Lucian's pockets and pouches, only to find nothing. I tear at his shirt and roll the cloth together to make a pack. It's the most I can hope for. I take his cloak, too, and go back to her. Her eyes flutter open, hazy.

“You look…worried,” she rasps. Then, she laughs, breathless. “Even harder to sell me now, isn’t it?”

“Save your strength.” My voice breaks as I say it. “Keep talking to me. Focus, Fiona. You're going to be fine."

She coughs, sputters, and shivers as I pack the wound and bind it. Her skin is already ice-cold.

I scoop her up, ignoring the way her head lolls against my chest. Her breathing gets thinner and thinner with each passing moment, but my heart is pounding with fear.

“Stay with me, Fiona. Keep talking.”

I run across the parapets, leaping down to the nearest guardhouse. The clash of battle echoes around me, and the scent of blood and fire drifts and mingles with the smoke. A small burst of heat washes over us from a fire that's burning several buildings away, but it's not enough to warm her. I shove the door open with my shoulder, slam it shut, and lay her on the cot inside.

Her breath rattles. The black veins pulse and grow up her neck. Once it reaches her eyes, she's as good as dead. Why isn't the antidote working? Is it fake?

There should be some other antidote here, something to slow the spread of poison. I tear through shelves, searching for bandages, for salves, for anything that might work. I can’t think, but I’m moving, pulling things off the shelves. My heart hammers in my throat.

“Varek.”

Her voice is faint. I grab what I can and go back to her.

Her eyes are barely open, but they find mine. “Let…my sister be free. Do what you want with my father. But Elara…don’t…”

“Fiona—”

She cuts me off with a shuddering breath. “And stop being an asshole to Liora and Cara. They deserve…to be sisters. Just…let them.”

My hands shake as I pull out the healing tonics and force the silver antidote into her mouth. I soak a clean cloth in the antidote and the tonic before switching it out and pressing down firmly.

“Keep talking. Don’t stop. Stay awake.”

Her lips curve faintly. “Bossy…”

Then, her eyes roll back. Her body goes limp.

“No!” My roar shakes the walls. I grip her face, shaking her. "Fiona!”

A howl of agony tears out of my chest, shattering the air with a mournful howl. She can’t be dead. She can’t, but I feel her slipping away. I feel her body slowly growing still with death. The door behind me burst open.

"Your Majesty!" I look back, recognizing the man as a healer. He looks down at Fiona and crosses the room in a moment, pushing to move me.

I resist, pushing him away. I can't leave her. If I leave her— 

"No—"

"Let me save her life!" He cries. Then, his tone softens. "You… have done all you can, Your Majesty."

It doesn't feel like it, but he pushes my hands away gently. I feel myself stepping back enough to give him space to work, but I don't take my eyes off of Fiona's face, not when she gasps for breath again and continues breathing, or even when someone else has draped a cloak over my shoulders and lit the fire.

I can't look away until I know for certain she’ll be okay. 

The healer turns back to me, wiping his brow with an uncomfortable expression. 

“It’s… in the Goddess’s hands now.”

I look back at her, trying to understand what he means and what I should do, but then the sound of battle draws me up and out of my seat. 

“When the healer advises, bring Princess Fiona back to the castle, to her room, and keep guard on her.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Hours melt away in a flurry of orders and fights. The day comes and goes and comes again, but the healer has no word for me about Fiona other than that she seems stable.

Days bleed into each other, marked only by reports and executions. I scarcely sleep. My wolf prowls at the edges of my mind, restless and snarling, as if he can't choose between mourning and more hunting.

I cannot mourn Fiona. I won't until it's time to mourn her. Every day I go to check and find her breathing, I tell myself that hunting the rest of the people behind the siege is the best use of my time.

Every interrogation further confirms what Fiona had said on that balcony. Hyath’s treachery is one thing, but finding how far Lucian and his father’s treachery go curdles my stomach. 

Lucian’s father had stood trial first, if it could even be called that. His confession came quickly enough once he realized I intended to kill him anyway. He admitted it all: spreading the rumor, filling Lucian's ears with the idea that he could be king if he got rid of me. He had no hand in conspiring with Hyath, but he admitted to being at the center of getting Cara sent off to be married.

He'd discovered that Cara's lover was her mate in the truest sense of the word. In Caldara, it meant that if they'd married and had a child, their child would, by default, be my heir until I had children of my own.

It had been Lucian who made that impossible soon after I sent Cara to be married, and sending Cara off was meant to secure the way for Lucian. On the second day after the siege, I had him dragged to the gallows and hung with silver chains so he would choke to death. I wish I could have hung Lucian up there with him.

Today, I’m dealing with the rest of Lucian's house. Most of them were innocent, but letting them stay in Caldara is out of the question, family or not. The determiner of their fate would be Lucian's sister. I summon her to the throne room. The rest of her family is already on house arrest in their chambers. She enters, dressed like she already thinks herself a queen. It's a good thing, as I have several kings still trapped in my palace looking for wives for themselves or their sons.

"Leave us," I say.

The guards leave. She beams up at me. Her eyes are full of hope and expectancy.

“I have decided to give you a choice,” I told her flatly. “Exile or marriage—"

"I would be honored to—"

"—to whichever bidder offers the most.”

Her smile breaks, and she flinches.

“You mean to sell me? After everything? I was meant to be yours! You would never have thought differently if not for her.”

She means Fiona, I know, but why she would ever think I would choose her as my bride, I can't fathom. I suppose I should have asked her caretaker before hanging him. She is the only daughter of a long-dead Caldaran hero that Lucian’s family had taken in, but not even her father’s honor could keep her clean of the stain of treachery. 

I wave my hand and call for a guard to take her away. 

"Pray someone worthwhile makes an offer for you."

She protests briefly and starts to weep as she’s taken.

"Perhaps a break is in order, Your Majesty?" Ronan asks.

“No. Bring him in."