The Calm Before (Reign and Ruin novella) Read Free

into his pocket and moved off
through the hallway to his office. Cirrus stood behind his door and
leaned back against the dark wood, breathing in slowly and
luxuriously.
    He had felt so
many things that afternoon. So many beautiful and terrifying things
that his body was fit to burst like an overripe cherry He could
still hear the silence that he left behind in the Wilds; the
rebellion and the lack of shame that Lucan insisted on taking with
him up until the very end. But despite that, the feeling that
rushed through his blood was pure and an adulterated elation.
    As he moved
across the room to kneel in front of the cold fire, he closed his
eyes to the memory.
    The Painter was
dead.
    Even saying the
words in his head shot a strong bolt of excitement through his body
close to arousal. The Painter is dead. It was a moment as fine as a
knifepoint. Each atom of his internal system shutting down, every
last beat of his heart as it slowed and shuttered; even the ebbing
flow of his blood through the veins in his arms to his brain and
his heart was like a lover’s caress to Cirrus. Because he had felt
it all.
    Cirrus stacked
the kindling on the fire, each stick of wood piling up like the
day’s list of glorious events, and he played back the last hour as
a show reel in his brain to savor each glorious moment.
    The desert had
been quiet. The air was mercifully mild and the stars of the Wilds
shone above the party to celebrate the occasion. There were no
clouds in the sky, not even the infamous purple one, as Cirrus had
landed about a mile away to appreciate the march across the sand. I am going to enjoy this , he thought. He had been waiting
for an excuse to do this for years. But now that it had finally
come, he drew out the experience like foreplay.
    As the leader
of the group, Cirrus formed the tip of the flock of figures
crossing the sand. He had brought with him a few of his men: Simon,
Terrick and Albion. Three very strong, very loyal men who also
didn’t speak. He didn’t need to take many precautions. He was the
Dream Catcher, after all. He couldn’t even remember the last time
anyone had questioned him. But when anyone makes the choice to do
business in the dead of night with three men who wouldn’t tell
anyone, Cirrus reasoned, perhaps what they're doing isn’t so
kosher. It never hurts to step a little lighter. And if the Council
found out, it would mean paperwork. Messy, bloody paperwork.
    The logs
stacked up one by one in the grate. One by one.
    Step by step .
. .
    Cirrus turned
his neck to look over his shoulder at the man being hauled behind
him. So much bigger than he, gifted at birth to be broader and
darker. He could never be from the same father, which was painfully
obvious. There was an air of myth about Lucan, everyone always said
so.
    Cirrus blew
angrily through his nose and spat in the sand, trying to dispel the
horrible feeling of shame that crept downwards into his gut when he
thought about the unfairness of it all. And to add insult to injury
he had to deal with this additional blow. His own family. His own
blood. And all because of some stupid little git of a girl, his
half-brother had left his post and left the Painter.
    Lucan must have
sensed his gaze, because his ocean-blue eyes shot up from following
his feet and caught Cirrus smack in the middle of his disdain. They
were angry and vengeful, like the sea during a storm, and Cirrus
felt his bravery and power quell slightly at the sight. He quickly
looked back to the horizon and walked faster.
    "Where are we
going, brother mine?" Cirrus heard the words float mockingly up to
his hearing. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, ignoring Lucan.
"Cirrus, I am being marched to a certain death. You can at least
tell me where that will be."
    "Wherever it
is, it cannot come soon enough," Cirrus shot back over his
shoulder. He heard Lucan scoff loudly.
    "Oh, come on.
This is a performance. You could have shot me in cold blood and
wrapped me in the sheets you