Bare Your Teeth, Wicked Ones

18. Inquiring About the Past

Nicholas

Fearworn reeked of disease, festering decay, and hollow. Observing through his eyes set Nicholas on edge. The Shade had moments of clarity where he spoke calmly to his generals, fanatics, and even the monsters. Then came the long hours spent toiling over books, muttering to himself in a language Nicholas could not place. He wouldn't be surprised if the words meant nothing or Fearworn created one all his own. He had the obsessive nature to do so, scribbling away, experimenting, and ignoring the world around him. He wouldn't eat if his disciples didn't scurry in with plates and practically feed him themselves. None appeared to care, worshiping him with misty eyes that craved the power seeping from him. Literally. That miasma never dissipated. He walked among power so great it took physical form, shifting around him in a violet storm.

At times, that storm streaked through Nicholas' veins, a rabid hunter in search of prey, exhilarated and yearning. A jolt struck him to the core and he knew he twitched and smiled, overwhelmed by the promise of becoming undone, taken solely by all the universe had to offer, to let it settle over his fingertips. He could grasp hold of the world and never let go. He could unravel all that was and would ever be if he simply held tight.

"Nicholas!" a shrill voice yelled that he couldn't recall, then a rough yank startled his eyes open. His own eyes, at least. Fearworn's view fell away and he returned to camp, his tent specifically.

Arden stood at his side, one hand holding tightly to his bicep and the other pointed at where he once sat. Nicholas scanned the area, smelt the smoke before he saw the burn marks reaching out from the clear circle he had sat upon. Pink flames licked the floor, sputtering into nothing.

"You nearly caught the tent ablaze," Arden explained.

"Did I?" Nicholas couldn't recall. He remembered Fearworn's fast hands stitching a beast together with shimmering thread that breathed life into the wretched beasts. Then he blinked the vision away and the fog of his mind dispersed.

"What did you see?" Arden asked.

"Nothing important. Nothing more than what we've already learned."

Fae and mortals alike knew Fearworn had Generals, but Nicholas' suspicions were proven correct days ago. Fearworn didn't give as many commands as previously predicted. His Generals made plans. While that made the targets heavier upon their heads, it didn't deter from the truth; regardless of Fearworn's lack of commands, he was the driving force behind everything. Those who sought power or wished to cause havoc flocked to him, worshiped him as a God and for good reason. His power remained a risk, something unfathomable.

"I do not find this consistent lurking to be of any good for you, or the rest of us." Arden's nose curled in distaste. "Had I not arrived when I did, you may have destroyed half of the camp."

"Half?" Nicholas snorted. "You think me that weak?"

"Would you prefer to destroy all of the camp?" Then Arden held up a hand. "Don't answer that. While I wouldn't mind listening to the mortals shrieking among the flames, there are some of our kin who interest me. I'd like an evening prior to their demise."

"I will take note of your desires, but do not believe for a moment that they matter. Now, why did you seek me out? Hoping for another evening from me?"

Arden winked. "Always."

Normally Arden's interest gave way to excitement, but Nicholas found himself disinterested. Disappointed, even.

"But I fear we don't have the time now," Arden added to his strange relief. "The Generals want an update."

Nicholas groaned. Acquiring Fearworn's blood may have been a breakthrough, but it had become most tedious for him. The Generals were beginning to treat him like a lap dog they could beckon at their leisure. He would give them a piece of his mind, after he discovered why Duke entered carrying a letter with his father's seal.