The Chalice of Nightmares (Lorcan fanfiction)

Chapter 9

Seraphin didn't speak to Lorcan for three days.

She wouldn't have spoken to him for another three, maybe for three damn months, if necessity hadn't required them to break their hateful silence.

Her cycle had come. And through whatever steady, healthy diet she'd been consuming this past month, it had gone from an inconsistent trickle to the deluge she'd awoken to this morning. The pain sliced from her back and stomach down to her thighs, up to her arms, like living bands of lightning flashing through her.

Seraphin gritted her teeth in frustration as she hurled herself from the narrow bed in the cabin to the small privy on board. She rifled through every drawer and box she could find, but it quickly became evident that a woman had never spent any time on this infernal boat. With no other options, she resorted to tearing up the embroidered tablecloth for makeshift liners. By the time she had cleaned herself up, Lorcan was already awake and at the helm, steering the boat onward

She said flatly to him, "I need supplies."

"You still reek of blood."

"I suspect I will reek of blood for several more days, and it will get worse before it gets better, so I need supplies. Now."

He turned from his usual spot near the prow, sniffing once. Her face was burning, her stomach a knotted mess of cramping. "I'll stop at the next town."

"When will that be?"

"By nightfall."

They'd sailed right through every town or outpost along the river, Lorcan surviving on the fish he had caught and her on the bread and vegetables the sailor had left behind.

Seraphin said, "Fine."

Lorcan said, "Fine."

She aimed for the cabin to find some other fabrics to tide her over, but Lorcan said, "You barely bled the last time."

Fae cycles were drastically different from human ones, they occurred only twice or thrice a year but were twice as painful. The last thing she wanted to do was have this conversation. "Perhaps my body finally felt safe enough to be normal."

"So ... there's nothing wrong, then." He didn't bother to look at her as he said it.

But she cocked her head, studying the hard muscles of his back. Even while refusing to speak to him, she'd watched him—and made excuses to watch as he went through his exercises each day, usually shirtless.

"No, there's nothing wrong," she said.

Lorcan said, "Good. It'd delay us if it were otherwise."

She rolled her eyes at his back, not at all surprised by the answer, and walked back to the cabin, wincing with each step.

------

He'd needed to stop anyway, Lorcan told himself as he watched Seraphin barter with an innkeeper in town for the supplies she needed. She'd wrapped her moon-white hair in a discarded red kerchief she must have scrounged up on that pitiful little barge and even used a nasally accent while she spoke to the woman, her entire countenance a far cry from the graceful, quiet woman he'd spent three days ignoring.

Which had been fine. He'd used these three days to sort out his plans for Aelin Galathynius, how he'd return the favour she'd dealt him. The inn seemed safe enough, so Lorcan left Seraphin to her bartering—turned out, she wanted new clothes, too—and wandered the ramshackle streets of the backwater town in search of supplies.

The streets hummed with activity as river traders and fisherfolk settled in for the night. Lorcan's intimidating presence proved effective as he negotiated a crate of apples, dried venison, and oats for half their usual price. Eager to be rid of him, the merchant along the crumbling quay threw in a few pears as a gesture for the "lovely lady."

With his arms full of provisions, Lorcan made his way back to the barge, the merchant's words echoing in his mind like an off-kilter peal of bells.

He hadn't taken Seraphin past that section of the quay. Hadn't spied the man while he'd been docking, or when they'd left. Rumour could account for it, but this was a river town: strangers were always coming and going and paid for their anonymity.

Hurrying back to the barge, Lorcan noticed that fog had rolled in from the river, shrouding the town and the opposite bank in a hazy veil. As he dumped the crate and wares onto the boat without bothering to tie them down, he couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settling over him. The streets had emptied, and his magic stirred within him. Lorcan scanned the fog, his gaze flitting over the splotches of gold where candles flickered in windows, searching for any signs of danger lurking within the mist.

Not right, not right, not right, his magic whispered.

Where was she?

Hurry, he willed her, counting the blocks they'd taken to the inn. She should have been back by now.

The fog pressed in. Squeaking sounded at his boots.

Lorcan snarled at the cobblestones as rats streamed past—toward the water. They flung themselves into the river, crawling and clawing over one another.

Something wasn't coming—something was here.

------

The innkeeper insisted that Seraphin try on the clothes before making a purchase. With a bundle of garments pressed into her arms, Seraphin was directed toward a room at the back of the inn.

Men's eager gazes followed Seraphin as she passed, their stares lingering a moment too long as she strode down the narrow hall. It was typical of Lorcan to leave her to fend for herself while he pursued whatever he needed. Seraphin shoved her way into the room, finding it enveloped in darkness and chill. She quickly twisted around, scanning the dim interior for a candle and flint.

The door snapped shut, sealing her in.

Seraphin lunged for the handle as the wind whispered, Run run run run run run.

She collided with something muscled, bony, and leathery, the putrid stench of spoiled meat and old blood assaulting her senses. Across the room, a candle sparked to life, casting flickering light that revealed the wooden table, an empty hearth, and sealed windows. And then, in the corner of the room, her worst fears were realized as she beheld...

Vernon—Elide's uncle. Sitting on the other side of the table, smiling at her like a cat. Strong hands tipped in claws clamped on her shoulders, nails cutting through her leathers. The ilken held her firmly as Vernon drawled, "What an adventure you've had, Your Highness."