Marshal stretched, his joints cracking like splintered ice. His body, sore and aching, reminded him he'd been dragging this corpse of a body around for two and a half centuries now.
The creeping nausea of a hangover coiled in his gut, a slow, toxic burn.
Still alive.
Unfortunately.
He tapped his chest, expecting the core to spool up, but no boost kicked in.
A frown pulled at his lips and he banged his fist against his ribs. Again. Again.
But nothing. It was Cold. Empty.
He shoved his shoulders, straining to sit up. Was Shadow still sleeping? That stupid fragment, lazy as always, did not give him the power to dull the ache. His eyes teared open, and the dry dust stung his pupils. Hell, why was being alive so painful?
He narrowed his sight at the litter of crates around him, the hum of a roaring crystalline engine vibrating his fingers. Steam rose high, heat gushed out, and the airship growled in pride. This was no doubt a warship in its construction, from the reinforced hull to the workhorse of a core.
"Good, there must be some fuel around here." He mumbled.
He struggled to his feet, his unpowered knees threatening to drop him to the grated floor of the engine room. Steaming hell. Was he always this weak without the surge? He couldn't remember a time he had gone without it. His head spun, and the real effects of his alcoholic binge whipped his tired body.
Fume. Wine. Anything to drown the ache. He would take that numb bliss over this, anything but remind him of his real power. Or lack thereof. He panted his ruined lungs, gasping for air. His legs, as if remembering what they went through, quivered, his ears lighting up as the pops of the engine screamed a war beat.
Gunshots cracked in his skull.
Dust-smothered skies.
Swords, screams, the hiss of void's creatures tearing through flesh.
Soldiers marched.
Daemons marched.
He marched.
It's not real. It's not real—
Black eyes, endless voids, hands that took and took and took—
He swallowed, pushing his heart back into its rightful place. His body steadied, hardening to his will.
"Princes don't break." He said. "I… will not-"
He sucked in a deep dust-coated breath, the layers of gemstone soot coating his lips, his skin, his throat. Pushing it down and channelling a fresh breath, he took one step, another, and more.
He broke into the side chamber. The room was tidier than the last, and the large crates of gemstones were replaced with smaller and more abundant boxes filled with various supplies from dried meats, glasses, and, unfortunately for him, no wine.
His breath hitched as his gaze fell on the operating table, a body lying motionless in the centre of the cramped chamber. He stepped forward, his stomach twisting at the familiar face. And taking a morbid step, he approached the operating table. Unlike anything else in the chamber, it was clean, but that was not what caught his sight. His glare fixed on her empty expression, her eyes half open, panning to nothingness.
He met her before—the note in Rosalind's book recalling in his mind. She said she wasn't experimenting again. He shook at the idea. She also betrayed him, lest he forget that. She would have to lie to his face, which shouldn't surprise him. Marsh looked at the lifeless woman. Rosalind must have had a reason, right? Sure, her ethics were questionable, but her reasoning was always in the right place.
He gazed at the corpse's fingers, the soft nails almost too smooth. He checked her arm, lifting it to gauge articulation, but found it warm, with no pulse present. That couldn't be right. Once the core stopped, the body should have died.
He scanned her body. Odd, he remembered her being thinner and even scrawny, like a twig ready to snap; the image before him could be described as intense, defined, and full of vigour. Reinvestigating her face, her once emaciated cheeks and dark eyes now reflected the epitome of health, her thin lips more vibrant than before.
None of this made sense; only an Archdemon could heal like this, and even then, there were limits, his old scars proof enough. He glanced at her chest and cleared his throat before going further.
He navigated to where her core should be located, placing his palm on the right of her chest. And to his wide eyes, the flickering core on its last legs thumped. She was alive or, at least, hanging on by a thread. Her heart and lungs had stopped, and he could only hope the core was sustaining her brain, the blood that still ran through her warm, even if pushed artificially.
Marsh pressed his fingers to her skin, closing his eyes as he tried to summon Shadow. He forced himself to focus. She might be alive—technically—but her core needed fuel. He was sure he had a reserve somewhere inside him; the amount of crystals in his blood couldn't have all been drained right.
"Shadow," he commanded.
His finger pressed into her skin, the sweat oozing from his fingers. Nothing. Digging deeper, He tried again.
"SHADOW!"
The woman's body still lay, lifeless, his heart ramping up now. No, this couldn't be. He was the Prince of Wrath, the fucking dragon slayer. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing. He measured her core, the hum waning now, the slip of her skin chilling.
"No, NO, he refused it. He defied it. He was not going to add another to his list."
Then, he saw a lone earring in the corner of his eye. She had used it to blow a door. And of amber hue, it was a Hemarite, the gemstone of body.
His instinct kicked in, and his eyes scanned for needles, syringes and even knives—anything to let him inject it into her bloodstream. He might not be a healer or even remotely trained, but fixing or jump-starting an Archdemon, that, he knew. Shooting a glance at the pristine glasses, he darted around the table. He took the longest one out, a glass for cocktails or something.
He banged the rim to a group of packed-up chairs, the end splintering into long, pointed shards. He plucked a piece, positioning the new tear against his finger like a scalpel. Like his sister and other variants of Valkar, he had fangs, a rudimentary method to inject crystalline compounds.
He turned—
And stopped.
The Aviar was right there, staring at the scalpel.
Then at the body.
Then back at him.
"This is a misunderstanding," Marsh said flatly.
A lie, obviously.
He did his best to resist pushing that fairy out of the way and continuing. But they can't fight here, not while she was in that condition. He felt his still cold core. Not that he could do much fighting anyway.
The Aviar flicked his wing and tightened his lip, the man's lips curling to a snarl.
"What am I misunderstanding? That you're as crazy as your sister right now?"
Marsh glared at the body, wishing he could go already.
"Her earing; she is going to die if I don't-"
The man looked at the small gemstone. "Is she an Archdemon?"
"Yes, she needs-"
The man snatched the stone and swallowed it.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!"
Marsh lunged, scalpel flashing in his grip—
Then froze.
Because the spy—
Was kissing the goddamn corpse.
Marsh's brain stalled.
His eyes locked on the slow trickle of red liquid, the unnatural press of lips, the obscene, exaggerated smack as the spy pulled back for air.
Marsh exhaled sharply.
"What. The. Fuck."
Marsh's hand tightened around the makeshift scalpel. Sure, It was a way of getting fuel into her bloodstream and surging directly from her stomach was possible. But there was a con. The body jolted, and the Aviar shot back, coughing, his mouth littered with spikes. Fuel or not, if you forced it down, it would try to come back up.
He directed the fairy away. Glass and bile were disgusting, yes, but it wouldn't kill him. He had seen demon bodies handle worse. He regarded the sleeping woman, her breath now gracing her lips. Lifting her palm, her pulse was now steady. Then, most importantly, moving his scalpel out, he pushed it along her forearm, the fresh blood rising to the surface. And as he expected, along with the lifefluid, a gush of steam rolled in and sped up the process, the cut sealing.
However, despite this, why wasn't she awake? Her core was running fine; it was a tad slow but good nonetheless. Peering at her still expression, eyes clenched shut. Something gnawed at him. How long had she been down here? If anything, it was a miracle he even found her at the right time, as if something had been waiting for him.
But, blinking, the woman's face scrunched. Her tired but somehow fierce crimson eyes strained against the light. The woman's lips formed a frown, her flickering lashes regarding them for the first time. Her skin was smooth like cream, with an angular yet curved jawline that framed her face. She had a pluck nose, pointy yet small, and her hair, like molten violet chocolate, dark, rich and flowing.
The woman sat up, and impulsively, Marsh averted his gaze. Don't look, whatever you do, don't look. She doesn't know.
"Where… am I?" she said.
"And here I thought you would have the answer," said the spy.
The woman rubbed her shoulder, "What? I don't follow."
The spy pointed in the woman's direction, and despite his efforts, Marsh also caught a glance.
"Not every day, you find a fine lady out on display like that."
"Lady?"
The woman frowned, the word almost salty on her lips. She gazed downward, immersed in the shimmering light emanating from the roaring engine room, which cast a spotlight on her naked figure.
"See, Definitely a Lady," said the man.
The Aviar wagged his wings, licking his lips with far too much satisfaction.
Marshal scowled.
Second-guessing his motivation for that kiss was probably wise.
But—
That shouldn't bother him.
Right?