Mask of Poison (Fall of Under Book 1) by Kathryn Kingsley (great novels to read txt) 📕

was of a man in a white porcelain mask with long, blond hair and brilliant, glowing white wings that were spread out behind him. Golden chains draped from his fingers and wrists and looped around his bare chest. White ink, like that she had seen on Lyon, covered his bare chest. He wore a sash of fabric around his waist, and nothing else.

He was beautiful.

She found herself unable to look away. Something about the painting of the man caught her and refused to let her go.

That was until a voice came from behind her. “And you must be Ember.”

She screamed.

21

Ember pulled her knife and whirled to face the sound of the voice.

She found herself pointing the tip of the blade directly at the man’s face, barely two inches away. Or rather, at his mask. The first thing that struck her about him was the smooth, black, metal surface that robbed him of all features. Over one of his eyes was a perfect circular hole, and from the bottom of the circle was a line that bisected the cheek of the mask. But like all the other masks she had seen, only darkness was visible through the gaps.

Long black hair, accented with only a few gray hairs, flowed loose around his face and shoulders. He wore an elaborate suit of layered black fabrics. His hands were clasped behind his back.

If the man seemed bothered by her knife, he didn’t show it.

In fact, he didn’t do anything at all.

She lowered her knife slowly and took a step back. “Sorry.”

“Oh, good. It’s skittish.”

“I’m not—you snuck up on me.” She glared at him, and then decided it was probably best not to taunt the man. She took another step back. “I’m used to being attacked when I’m snuck up on.”

“I see. By these ‘zombies’ of yours?”

“We call them drengil.”

Finally, the man moved. He walked right toward her, and then…right past her toward his fireplace. She loosened her grip on her knife, not having realized she had been grasping it hard enough for her knuckles to go white.

“Lyon mentioned you spoke a language that is foreign to the Ancients. Fascinating. I am Aon, the King of Shadows, in case you hadn’t worked that out on your own.” He sank down into a chair in front of the fire and motioned to the empty one across from him.

“I took a wild guess.” She followed him and, after a pause, sheathed her knife back in her belt and sat down. She felt ridiculously out of place in her tattered, stained, and cobbled-together clothing in such a fancy environment.

He chuckled. “I am sure you have already been warned. I heard Maverick’s whispered words of dread as you arrived. Good. Then I will make this brief. You will tell me everything. Absolutely everything that you know.”

“Uh…literally?”

“No, not literally.” With a sigh, he placed a hand on the arm of the chair. One of his hands was covered in a black leather glove. But the other was a metal gauntlet. Carefully detailed like everything else in his home, it was a work of art. Complete with its long, pointed, deadly-looking claws. She couldn’t help but stare.

“Before you ask, it is a prosthetic.”

She furrowed her brow. “I thought your kind healed.”

“We do. Unless something, such as magic or a curse, impedes it. I could remove the curse, but I find myself unwilling to do so. This is a memory of a time long gone.” He lifted his metal hand and turned it, allowing her to see more of the craftmanship.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” He put his hand back down.

She watched him, fascinated. “Why did you tell me that? About the hand? It seems personal. You don’t seem like the sharing type.”

“You’re correct, I am not. Why do you think I told you?”

She paused to think over her answer before she spoke. “Because you want me to feel safe enough to tell you everything you want to know. You want me to trust you.”

“You do not seem like the trusting type, my dear Ember. Nor the type to view anything as ‘safe.’ You see your surroundings as nothing more than an impermanent situation. Even now, I see you glancing toward the windows and doors. Am I correct?”

She nodded.

“I told you about my hand because it means nothing to you. Even now, you are satisfied with my answer. You do not care why I choose to keep it.”

“It’s not my business.” She shrugged. “If you’re as old as everyone says, I’m sure you have your reasons. Besides, I don’t think we have time to listen to your whole life story.” She tried to smile and managed a small one. “Since we’re about to fight an army of the dead.”

“Good.” Aon let out a small breath. “Skittish, but sensible. Are you willing to aid me in defending this world, then?”

“My life has been dedicated to nothing but fighting the drengil. I lost Gioll. I will do everything I can to protect Under.”

“Then start at the beginning, Ember. Tell me of your life on Gioll.”

Dtu watched as the mortals filed into Aon’s home, huddled together in their terror. He growled low in his throat.

“I know you dislike this, old dog,” Kamira said from where she was perched atop a statue beside him. “I dislike it just as much. But the logic holds sound. When Rxa shows up with his army, we can’t fight him and protect the mortals.”

“I do not trust Aon.” He sank down onto his haunches. He had the urge to tear up the warlock’s precious gardens out of spite. But now was not the time for pointless infighting, even if he desperately wanted to lift his leg and piss in the man’s centerpiece of a fountain.

“No one does.” Kamira stretched and leaned back against the statue, draping herself across the top of the stone depiction of some old war hero. Or perhaps it was one of Aon’s previous elders. Dtu didn’t care enough to find out. “Save maybe Lydia. Maybe.”

“Once