Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, Book 2)

Iris ran down the dark side street.

Somewhere along the way she had lost one of her high heels, and her bare foot stung with every lopsided step. Her dress was torn; her knees were skinned. She couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt because her body was numb.

All she could feel was her heart, pounding an erratic song in her ears, down the twisted lines of her veins.

Don’t stop! It’s not safe yet.

Exhaustion crept over her, making her slow and clumsy. Her muscles were tight and hot beneath her sweaty skin. She couldn’t seem to push herself to run any faster and yet she worried she would collapse if she stopped moving.

Where am I?

She felt completely turned around, lost in a shadowy maze. Swallowed whole by a nightmare she was desperate to wake from. She shivered as she limped to a reluctant stop at the next intersection.

A few motorcars sped past, tires splashing through rain puddles. The streetlamps began to flicker to life, their amber light drawing a host of moths. A newspaper was disintegrating on the cobblestones.

It was evening, and curfew was imminent. Oath was eerie in the solemn darkness, as if the city grew teeth and claws when the sun set. She needed to find a safe place to rest for the night, and she didn’t know where that haven was until she realized what street she had arrived at.

She took a tentative step forward.

There in the distance loomed the museum, with its white columns and flickering lanterns and bloodred doors. Those doors would lock after nightfall; no one would be able to follow her inside. They would shelter her from the Graveyard.

As if sensing her thoughts, gunshots rang in the nearby distance, followed by shouts and a blood-chilling scream.

Iris winced and crouched. But she didn’t stop moving. She hurried along the sidewalk until she was almost at the museum’s stairs. Then she sprinted, kicking loose from her other shoe until it was just her bare feet slapping on the marble.

She opened the heavy door and slipped into the museum just moments before the locks magically bolted for the night. Iris shuddered—you’re safe, you’re safe—and took five steps across the foyer before her legs gave out.

“You’re safe,” Iris whispered to herself, as if speaking the words aloud would make them real. But she didn’t believe her own voice.

She didn’t believe her words anymore.

In the moments leading up to the explosion, Iris had thought Dacre’s speech conceited, overwrought, and silver-tongued. She didn’t trust a single word he spoke—she saw through him like he was glass—but when she had glanced at the people around her … their expressions were awed and intent. She saw that they were being drawn in by his appeal for Oath.

There will be no bloodshed. There will be no need for death.

I am here to heal your old wounds and restore this city to glory.

She wondered if this was the beginning of the end. If Oath was about to bow in feverish surrender. She wondered what her life would be like beneath Dacre’s rule.

That was when she heard the strange clicking.

Iris didn’t know what it was initially, but her body went rigid when she remembered being in the trenches with Roman. How the grenade had made a similar sound before it exploded. The tall man at her side also seemed to know what the clicks meant. He drew a sharp breath and stepped forward, directly in front of her, like he was about to storm the stage.

There was no time as an explosion rocked the courtyard.

A blinding light, the crack of wood, the weight of thunder. The sting of hail and the whistle of metal in the air. The melting of gravity and the splinter of bones. The taste of blood and smoke and the ring of death.

Iris didn’t remember being blown off her feet. But when she could blink the grit from her eyes, she realized the man in front of her had taken the brunt of the blast. The man whose name she didn’t even know had died as a shield for her, whether he had intended to or not. He was now draped across her legs, punctured by pieces of wood, bleeding onto her dress. He was dead, and she had to wrench herself free from his weight, her lungs heaving as she realized what had just happened.

She rose on shaky legs.

Through the smoke, she could see some people coughing and crawling along the ground, but most of those around her were dead. Gripping the front of her dress, Iris looked up.

She met Dacre’s fiery stare. He stood hale and whole amid the wreckage, blood dripping from his face, his clothes hanging from his powerful body in tatters.

When he stepped forward, she scrambled backward, tripping over bodies and hitting the ground with a jar.

Run.

It was the only crystal-clear thought she had.

Run.

As gunshots broke through the haze, Iris lunged to her feet and ran.

It was strange how she couldn’t get herself to rise now.

Iris lay on the floor of the museum’s foyer, her cheek pressed to the marble. The last time she had been here, she had been stealing the First Alouette with Attie and Sarah. A night that felt like centuries ago.

She retraced that memory, hoping it would calm her heart. But it reminded Iris that the museum always had a guard patrolling at night. She wasn’t alone here, and she didn’t want to be caught.

With a groan, she pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet. Now that her adrenaline had ebbed, she could feel a hot pulse in the arch of her right foot. She examined it to see a few shards of glass embedded in her skin.

She had bled onto the floor but had nothing to wipe it clean.

“Later,” she told herself, hobbling down the hallway.

Only a few bulbs were on, emitting faint light. Most of the museum was draped in shadows, quiet and cold as if underwater, and Iris was almost to the room where the Alouette had once been displayed when she heard the echo of a door closing.

She froze, listening.

Someone was walking down the other corridor, in the direction of the foyer.

It had to be the night guard, and Iris darted into the one of the back rooms, falling on her hands and knees to crawl behind a statue. She pulled her legs tight against her chest. Her breaths were labored, her foot throbbing in tandem with her frantic heartbeat.

She closed her eyes as the bootsteps drew closer.

She was so tired; she had no more strength to dodge another foe. To run from room to room like quarry, seeking a place to hide.

Iris closed her eyes and swallowed.

After a few more beats, she could see a beam of light seeping through her eyelids. Tense, she waited. And when the light finally spilled over her, she knew there was no more pretense. No more hiding.

She opened her eyes, squinting up at the guard who stood before her. A middle-aged woman with long hair, dark as night with a few streaks of silver. Her skin was pale but radiant, and her face could have been one that Iris had seen many times before and forgotten save for her eyes. They were a startling shade of green. She was tall and slender beneath her navy guard’s uniform, but she carried no weapon. No gun or baton, only a metal torch, which she politely pointed downward.

Iris trembled as she waited for the woman to make her demands. She waited for what she expected—Who are you? You’re trespassing. You need to leave at once. Get out.

But those words never came.

“You’re hurt,” the woman said. “Let me help you.”

And when she extended her hand, Iris didn’t hesitate.

She accepted the help, and the woman drew her up off the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Iris said. She was sitting in a worn leather chair in the museum office, and the woman—who had no name badge—was kneeling before her, preparing to draw the glass from her foot with a pair of tweezers.

“Sorry for what?”

“For trespassing after hours.”

The woman was quiet as she examined Iris’s foot. Her hands were cool and soft, but her knuckles were swollen. Iris wondered if she was in pain of her own until she said, “The museum is more than just a home for artifacts. In many ways, it’s a refuge. And you were right to come here if you were in need.”

Iris nodded. She was beginning to feel faint, looking at those tweezers.

The woman sensed it. “Close your eyes and lean your head back. This will be over before you know it.”

Iris did as the woman instructed, taking a deep breath. But the silence fueled her worries, and she found herself saying, “How long have you worked at the museum?”

“Not very long.”

“Are you from Oath?”

There was a plink of glass in a metal tin. Iris hadn’t even felt her pull it free.

“Not originally, no. But it’s my home now. I haven’t left in a long time.”

“Do you have any family here?” Iris asked next.

“No, it’s just me. I keep company with music.”

“You play any instruments?”

A long pause, followed by a slight tug. Iris winced as she felt a shard of glass pull free.

“I did once,” the woman replied. “But no longer.”

“Because of the chancellor’s decree?”

“Yes, and no. A man such as him couldn’t keep me from playing if I wanted to.”

That brought a smile to Iris’s face. It reminded her of Attie, drawing a bow across her violin in the basement. Refusing to give it up to the authorities when they came to confiscate all the other stringed instruments.

Another piece of glass was dislodged. This time it burned, and Iris hissed through her teeth.

“I’m almost finished,” the woman said. “Just a few more shards.”

Iris remained quiet this time, her eyes clenched shut and her head angled back. But she soaked in the sounds of the museum at night: there was a kettle boiling on the small cooker in the back room, another clink of glass pulling free, the woman’s steady breaths as she worked, and a reverent silence, woven through it all.

“Finished,” the woman said. “Let me bandage it for you.”

Iris opened her eyes. She had bled on the woman’s pants, but she didn’t seem to mind as she wrapped Iris’s foot in a swath of linen.

“And now for some tea.” She was up and moving to the cooker before Iris could blink, setting aside the tweezers and the tray full of shards.

Iris listened as she washed her hands in the sink, and soon the room was fragrant with the scent of lavender black tea and warm honey.

“Here you are.” The woman set a cup of tea in her hands. “Drink. It’ll help you sleep.”

“Thank you,” Iris replied. “But I should stay awake.”

“Have you never wondered what your dreams would be like if you fell asleep in a museum?”

Iris smiled. “No, I haven’t.”

“Then wonder. You’re safe here. Let yourself dream, if only to see where your mind will take you.”

Iris took a sip. Her mind was foggy now, and a sense of comfort and bliss began to steal over her, as if she was lying in the grass with summer sunshine on her face. She wondered if it was the tea, or if she was truly that weary.

The woman draped a blanket over her legs.

Iris drifted off into sleep before she knew it.

“Iris.”

She startled at the sound of her name. A sound like reeds in the wind. A rush of magic beneath a wardrobe door.

Iris opened her eyes. She was in the museum.

She took a step deeper into the foyer only to see she wasn’t alone. The night guard from before was with her, only she now wore a simple homespun dress and her feet were bare.

“Come with me,” she said, beckoning Iris to follow her into one of the rooms. “There is something I want to show you.”

Iris trailed her, surprised when the woman stopped in front of a glass display holding a sword.

“I’ve seen this before,” Iris said, admiring the shine of tempered steel and the inlay of small gemstones in the golden hilt. “I think I looked at this sword the last time I was at the museum.”

“Indeed,” the woman replied mirthfully. “When you broke into the museum to steal the First Alouette.”

Iris should have been afraid that the guard knew of her crime. But this woman didn’t inspire fear, and Iris only smiled. “Yes. You’re right. Why did you want to show it to me now?”

The woman directed her attention back to the sword. “This is an enchanted weapon. It was forged by an Underling divine and given to King Draven centuries ago when this land was ruled by one man, and he carried it with him in a battle against the gods. This blade has killed many divines in a time nearly forgotten.”

“But the plaque says it was only used for—”

“That is a lie.” The woman’s voice was firm, but not unkind. She met Iris’s gaze, and her bewitching green eyes were both angry and sad. “Many pieces of the past have been rewritten or lost. Forgotten. Think of all the books in the library with pages torn free.”

Iris was silent, but she could feel the weight of those words. She considered the sword again and asked, “What is it enchanted to do?”

“It cuts through bone and flesh like a knife does butter, if only its wielder offers the blade and the hilt a taste of their blood first. A sacrifice, to weaken yourself and wound your own hand before striking.” The woman turned and resumed her walking. “Come, there is more to see.”

Iris followed her through the museum, surprised when the walls suddenly became narrow and rocky. The air turned dank and cold, tasting like moss and rot. Firelight danced from iron sconces.

“I didn’t realize the museum had a place like this,” Iris said, ducking beneath a cobweb.

“It doesn’t,” the woman answered. “This is my husband’s domain.”

“Are we going to meet him?”

“No. I want to show you a door. But first, pay attention to the floor. The way it slopes. It will guide you through the many passages, taking you deeper into the realm.”

“Deeper?” Iris’s pace slowed.

The walls began to waver. One color was bleeding into the next.

“Don’t think too hard about it, Iris,” the woman said, her raven hair shining blue in the strange light. “Or else this will break.”

Iris nodded, trying to relax. They finally reached the door. It was tall and arched, its lintel carved with runes.

The woman touched the iron knob and paused, as if lost to memory. “When I dwelled here, there were no locks. I could come and go anywhere in the realm, as long as I didn’t return to my life above. My husband thought he was granting me freedom, but it was a cage.”

Iris felt a flare of dismay. “Who was your husband?”

The woman looked at Iris, but she only said, “Beyond this door is the heart of the realm. A wild yet vulnerable place. It is here that my music was strongest, perhaps because of the risk. But you will need a key to unlock the door.”

“Where do I get a key?” Iris asked, her head beginning to throb.

The woman didn’t reply, but when she pushed, the door opened. Iris followed her, surprised when the dank air of the tunnel became warm and bright again.

They stood on a grassy hillside. Around them was a landscape of flower-speckled vales and bluffs that rolled into distant mountains. Clusters of pines and a river that flowed along a valley bed.

“It has been a very long time since I could stand here and soak in this view.” The woman’s voice was soft with nostalgia. The wind touched her with a sigh, gathering her long hair like a loving hand. “You asked me if I was from Oath. I am not, and I once roamed these hills with my family. Anywhere I could see the sky, any horizon I could chase. The freshly churned ground of graveyards. That was my domain, and yet I surrendered it when I exchanged a vow with Alzane, all because he feared my growing power. Since then, I have been beholden to Oath. I cannot leave the city, or else I would have met him in the west when he woke.”

“Met who?” Iris whispered.

“Dacre,” the woman said. “He can mend what he breaks but I am music and knowledge, rain and harvest. I am nightmares and dreams and illusions. And if he were to kill me as he longs to do, then he would take all my magic into himself. There would be no end to his power, and he would feast on mortal fear and service. He wants to conquer this realm. He wants you to worship him and him alone.”

“But if you have such vast magic,” Iris began, “then shouldn’t you be able to conquer him? If you are illusions and nightmares and—”

“Oh, but that is the cost of it,” the woman gently interrupted, a wistful expression on her face. “I took the other three’s powers not because I was hungry for them, but because I didn’t want him to harvest such magic when he woke. But little did I know that doing so would weaken what was mine to begin with.” She lifted one of her hands, and Iris could see her swollen knuckles. “I can still play my harp, but not without agony.”

The sky overhead had turned overcast and dour. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the wind howled with a hint of rain.

“Please help us defeat him,” Iris whispered.

A look of compassion stole over the woman’s face. She reached out to trace Iris’s cheek, her fingertips cold as river water in winter.

“I have given you all the pieces that you need to vanquish him,” she said. “I confess that if I am the one to face him, my hand will be stayed. I won’t be able to plunge the sword into his neck, even after all the enmity that has grown between us. He will tear me to pieces and glean my powers. Then he will be the only divine remaining in the realm and, at some point in time, whether it is within your generation or another, a mortal will be brave enough to end him, burying him headless in a grave. When that happens, magic will also die, because there will be no more gods walking among you or sleeping beneath the loam. Once we are dead, it will all fade away.”

A knot pulled tight in Iris’s chest. It almost hurt to draw air, to think of what the woman described. A world in a cage. A world culled of freedom and magic, a memory of what had been.

It made her think of her typewriter. The enchantment in small, ordinary things. She thought of the letters she had passed beneath her wardrobe door to Roman. Words that had spanned kilometers and distance, grief and joy, pain and love. Words that had made her drop her armor after years of clutching it close.

Kitt.

Iris gasped. Her mind was sharpening as she remembered who she was, and the world around her started to melt. The mountains and the sky, the valleys and the wildflowers. Stars she had not even known existed. All of it was draining away like water in a bathtub, but the woman held firm before her, flowers blooming in her dark hair.

Not a woman, but a goddess.

“I don’t want you to die. I don’t want magic to fade, but I am not as strong as you,” Iris said. “He will surely defeat me.”

“You are capable of far more than you know. Why do you think I look at you now and marvel? Why do you think I draw close to your kind? I have sung many of you to eternal rest after death, and I have found that the music of a mortal life burns brighter than any magic my songs could stoke.”

She leaned forward to kiss Iris’s brow. For a split second, she looked like Aster—long chestnut hair, a quirk to her lips, a dusting of freckles on her nose. Tears burned Iris’s eyes when she realized that all this time, she hadn’t been dreaming of her mother but of this goddess.

Before she was ready for the dream to break, Iris startled awake.

She was sitting in a leather chair, the museum office limned in predawn light. A cup of cold tea was beside her, a warm blanket draped over her legs. Her right foot was bandaged, and she took a moment to catch her breath, still tender from the dream.

She noticed there was a set of boots on the ground before her, unlaced and polished. A clean outfit, of a knee-length skirt and a forest green blouse with pearl buttons, folded on the chair beside her. A pot of tea, steaming in wait for her to pour.

Iris threw off the blanket and rose, minding her foot although there was only a whisper of pain when she stood on it.

“Enva?” she called.

There was no answer. The air was heavy and quiet.

“Enva!”

She was wondering if it had all been a fever-struck imagining, a way for her mind to make sense of the world after surviving the bomb, when a flash of gold caught her eye. Iris turned to see a sword with a jeweled hilt leaning against the wall, its steel hidden within a scabbard. It was the very blade Enva had shown to her in the dream. Draven’s sword. The one that had killed many divines in the past.

Iris walked to it. She hesitated, replaying everything Enva had said and shown her. The sword, the door, the words.

Why didn’t I realize who you were you the moment I saw you? Iris wondered, aching at the thought of a goddess kneeling before her, drawing glass from her foot. Wrapping her wounds. A goddess making her tea and walking a dream with her.

You are capable of far more than you know.

Once, not long ago, Iris wouldn’t have believed those words. But she felt the tides pull beneath her, as if she stood beneath a bloodred moon.

She took the hilt in her hand.