Chapter 3
Helmer
Helmer expounded a pained exhale as the heat of a foot connecting with his chest exploded between his ribs. His older brother Andre’s kick had been delivered unexpectedly, and too swiftly, for Helmer to avoid it. Slowly, his vision cleared, and he looked up at Andre, careful to keep the contempt he felt off his face.
They were in the large storeroom in the basement of their father’s mansion, sunlight breaking through a row of small windows along the ceiling, falling across sacks of flour and dried food, deceptively peacefully. Tidy shelves lined the wooden walls, which were decorated with veins of black creeping up the timber beams. The plaster that laid between them cracked and peeling as the Mother Tree of Keinuka had begun to decay and rot from the inside.
Andre’s lips pulled back in a contemptuous snarl. “Get up, you worthless pile of shit.”
Helmer hated Andre. He was a contemptuous peacock and the carbon copy of their father—from his smug grin down to the core of his black soul. The second son of Cruor Borrowmag, Andre embodied everything their father thought a Kishi should be. Helmer didn’t believe that the Kishi were inherently evil, that was just the specific brand of psychotic his father prescribed to. Helmer didn’t believe it because he was Kishi, and he knew he wasn’t evil. Andre…
Andre was a Morrigan fanatic. Where their father had fought by her side in the days of the Uprisings because he had believed it to be the only way to save Daearen from itself, Andre followed her because they could all see what she really was: a reckoning for anyone who opposed them. Helmer scoffed internally. That lady was a few ingredients short of a full spell. And so was his elder brother.
His eyes took in the cracking of the wood ceiling and almost snorted. He could feel the same dry wood beneath his makeshift bed on the ground, chunks breaking free, rising, digging into his back through his thin bedding. The state of the Mother Tree was a great example of how well the queen’s plan was going. If you believed the quiet whispers of the Wenronian slaves, the Mother Tree had only started the long, drawn-out process of death because the raven queen had arrived.
Helmer caught Andre’s foot before it landed on him again. He fought the urge to give a hard jerk. It would be satisfying to watch Andre flail and fall flat on his ass, but Helmer knew that would only bring a flogging. Andre was relentless and excessive with the flogger with his worthless, magicless youngest brother. Helmer’s back was still healing from their last tangle.
Andre growled and leaned forward, his dark brown skin melting away slowly to reveal his true face. His mouth gave way to sharp snapping jaws covered in softly spotted brown and tawny-colored fur. The Kishi were shifters. To the public, they wore a mask so beautiful that it could rival the gods themselves. But when they no longer needed to keep up the pretense of beauty, their masks would melt away to reveal the face of a hyena. Gnashing teeth, snapping and deadly. This true face was the last thing their prey ever saw.
“Enough,” a voice said coolly from the doorway, the single word clipped with icy control. There was no anger in it, but the command was unquestionable.
Helmer turned his head to see Barret, his oldest brother, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms loosely crossed. There was no emotion on his face as he looked at Andre. He looked bored, but his eyes glimmered like orange, blood-red beacons, daring Andre to challenge him. His dark brown skin glittered in the sun like someone had dipped him in gold dust.
“I said to get him up. I didn’t say to eat him,” Barrett remarked, keeping his tone light.
Andre stood, dusting off his trousers. “I was just reminding him of the pecking order. A worthless hollow piece of garbage like him can’t forget his place. Maybe he’ll remember to get up and have breakfast ready if I take a bite or two out of him.”
Barret’s retort was delicate like the first frost as he eyed down his younger brother. “I think you’ve proven over the years that you know better than to cause any lasting marks. Stop making empty threats. It’s pathetic.” Andre tensed as though wanting to retort, but Barret took his eyes out of his to inspect the cuff of his clean, pressed shirt as he finished, “You ought to go wash for breakfast. I can smell you from here.”
Andre’s mouth had fallen open with the unexpressed argument, but when Andre didn’t follow Barret’s instructions, he once more locked eyes with the second son. There were no words exchanged, but Andre’s mouth closed with an audible click. He stalked toward the door, half-obscured by Barret’s broad frame, and was about to push past his brother when Barret’s arm shot out, stopping him. Andre looked at him, his eyes widening.
“If you hunt in the city walls again, I will kill you myself. Father had to pay off the guards after the stunt you pulled last night,” Barret said. His tone was even more dangerous for its soft nature.
Andre ground his teeth, disliking the humiliation of being told off, but nodded as acknowledgement of how he had fucked up most seriously. Ducking under Barret’s arm, he left the room in thickening silence.
The beatings were getting worse. There had been a time when Andre would only attack once or twice a year, then perhaps a handful of instances would occur where Barrett had to intervene, but now it was weekly. There was a frustration in Andre that he seemed to have no other outlet for, as though Helmer breathing the same air was an affront to him. Andre blamed his violence on the fact that Helmer was a hollow, but Helmer had always wondered if it was as simple as that. If there wasn’t some deeper reason that neither Helmer nor Barrett, and perhaps not even Andre, could get at.
There was no point dwelling on it. Helmer had enough to deal with, nursing the bruises Andre kept giving him. He pushed to a sit. Watching as Barret let out a slow breath. As the oldest son, it was his job to keep all thirty of their father’s sons in line. If Andre had been reckless enough to feed inside the city last night, that would not look good on the family.
Helmer frowned as he scented a faint trace of blood on the air, Barret’s gaze meeting his. Helmer sighed. Of course, their father would have lashed Barret for Andre’s transgressions. Morrigan was here for her biannual inspection, which meant that anything the sons did while the city was under her watchful eye would reflect poorly on the family. And their father. Though Helmer didn’t care that this dishonor could mean the depletion of the senior Borrowmag’s power within Morrigan’s army, of which he was the general, Helmer cared that any loss of power might result in deadly repercussions for the Borrowmag clan as a whole. Morrigan valued the life of the Sidhe she ruled, but only as far as their loyalty lay. Breaking her laws signaled a lack of loyalty that she had rarely shown mercy for.
Helmer had seen the brands on the cheeks of the Wenronian’s that had not escaped Morrigan. Witnessed how the other citizens treated them. A cold shudder ran down his spine. There were dogs in Keinuka that were treated kinder than those Morrigan branded traitors to her cause. Death would surely be the more desirable outcome.
Helmer got to his feet. “Come on.”
Barret looked at him with narrowed eyes.
He gave Barret a tentative glance. “At this rate, you’re going to bleed through your perfectly pressed shirt. How many lashings?” he asked.
Barret paused, weighing something. “Thirty. One for each of his no-good sons,” he finally admonished.
Helmer huffed a sardonic laugh. “Oh, what mercy.”
Barret chuckled. “That’s our father alright—the master of mercy.”
Helmer grunted in answer.
Tucked in one corner of the large storage space was a decent-sized pantry. He headed for it as Barret stepped into the room. The pantry was where Helmer slept, his blanket rolled up and tucked to the side to keep anyone from tripping over it during the hectic pace of the day. He’d hidden a first-aid kit behind the bags of flour since he’d been in need of it lately and he liked to keep it where he knew Andre wouldn’t even think to search for it.
He said nothing as he helped Barret out of his shirt, careful not to bump the red angry gashes that covered the man’s back. The fact that Cruor had turned the flesh into a canvas of ground beef did not faze him. It was the normal way of things in the house of Borrowmag.
Still, once Helmer completely removed Barret’s shirt and he could survey the full extent of the damage, he let out a soft whistle. “Realms. He did a number on you this time.”
Barret laughed. It was a humorless sound. He scrubbed a hand over his bald head as he let his fatigue show.
Barret’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, he was in particularly fine form today. I guess one of Morrigan’s witches was in the pub yesterday. He had her cast stones, to see about the newest addition to his ‘army’.”
Barret’s shoulders flexed involuntarily as Helmer set to washing off Barret’s mutilated back, the elder letting out a soft hissing breath.
Helmer flinched, stopping his movements. “Sorry.” Barret shook his head. There was no need for apologies. Helmer got back to the task at hand, slowing his movements as he squeezed water over the wounds. “I’m assuming the casting didn’t turn out the way he wanted. Let me guess, the witch said all he’d get for his pet project was another magicless hollow like me,” Helmer said dryly.
Barret’s voice was thick with emotion. “No, I think at this point he’d take that instead. He’s half tempted to kill Anita now and save himself the trouble of waiting.”
Helmer froze at this revelation.
Their newest stepmother, Anita, was heavily pregnant and due any day with the thirty-second member of the Borrowmag clan. Their father had dubbed the line of living sons the army a few years back, and Helmer held little doubt that their father wouldn’t hesitate to use his sons as just that if fortunes ever turned in his favor. For now, however, Cruor had to contend with the fact that a son hadn’t been born to him in seventeen years. seventeen years where he had gone through as many wives bearing him nothing but the one thing worse than a hollow: a daughter.
Helmer had only witnessed it once in all the pregnancies that had followed his own birth, what Cruor Borrowmag did with daughters born living to his line, and the memory had haunted his every waking moment since.
Helmer had held the small child for only a second, but it branded her beautiful eyes and dark brown skin in his memory. Every detail, every eyelash, absolutely perfect down to the fat little fingers waving in furious fists in the air, would remain with him for the rest of his life. She had grasped his finger just moments before Cruor had grabbed her from Helmer’s arms.
Helmer closed his eyes, willing the memory of what came next from his mind. The pain was still fresh, like acid being poured over his skin and having his heart ripped out of his chest all at the same time. Most days he willed himself not to think about it, but when he fell asleep, even now it would visit him in his nightmares.
“A girl.” The word whooshed out of him like a blow.
His older brother nodded.
Barret growled, the sound low and vicious. “He’s such a bastard.”
Helmer’s hands stilled in the process of grabbing a little pot of salve from his kit. He’d never heard the exalted first son say something so harsh about their father out loud. Amongst the sons, love was not the bond that kept their clan tied together, but no one ever spoke about it. Helmer could sense the tension running through Barret like he was a string pulled tight, his loathing for their father vibrating off him like a low, dulcet note.
Helmer wasn’t sure whether he should make a comment of his own. This was unfamiliar territory, and he didn’t want to overstep. He decided it was better to keep quiet, patting the salve onto Barret’s back gingerly.
After he’d bandaged the wounds, Helmer fished out an extra shirt from a stash he had hidden behind the racks of food towards the back of the room. He gave it a stiff shake and handed it to Barret. His older brother nodded at him, a crooked smile on his mouth.
“Thanks,” Barret said.
“No problem. Will you come with me to the kitchens and tell Marissa why I’ve just lost about an hour’s worth of work?” Helmer asked, though Barret could tell the question wasn’t in earnest.
Marissa would never scold Helmer, no matter what he did. She had expressed on more than one occasion how she felt he didn’t deserve to be relegated to the serving staff simply because he had no magic. He was still a son of the house and Cruor should rot for treating him as anything less than that. Helmer had always calmed her, told her there was nowhere he would rather spend time than in the kitchen with her as a teacher. He could make an atole that was almost as tasty as hers.
He liked Marissa. Closer to Barret’s age, she was fun to work with her quick humor and a sharp tongue. She’d taught him everything he knew about dressing wounds. He also found her fascinating.
She was a Naturea Fae, an earth fairy. Most of the Naturea that couldn’t flee Keinuka when Morrigan defeated the Wenronian army had been reassigned as healers, kitchen staff, or farmers. That was, unless the awen scan revealed them as particularly powerful. They sent those Fae to the farms. The ultimate selfless sacrifice, according to Morrigan.
His fondest memory from his childhood was watching her strawberry blonde hair shimmer in the light that cascaded in from the kitchen window as she flitted around like a butterfly. He’d itched to sketch her. Wanting nothing more than to capture how the light played on her hair and shimmered as she moved. But drawing wasn’t a manly way to occupy one’s time in the Borrowmag household. So, he never did.
He guessed it’s a good thing no one ever looked under his bedroll in the storeroom where a rough bound book filled with drawings of the world around him hid. That would earn him a hell of a beating, for sure.
Helmer shared a smile with his brother, but as he was about to head for the door, Barret caught his shoulder, anchoring him in place. Helmer’s eyes widened at his older brother’s intense expression, a dark streak in his golden eyes Helmer had never seen before.
“Be ready,” Barret instructed cryptically.
Saying no more, he turned, fastening the last button on his collar as he walked out of the storeroom. What the hell did he mean to be ready? Ready for what? Anxiety slammed through him like loose rocks as he tried to dissect the statement.
He got no more time than it took to walk from the storeroom to the kitchen before plates of food were shoved into his hands.
Marissa took him off guard by being in a foul mood, affording him a glare as she scolded him, saying, “Took you long enough.”
“What’s this? Breakfast is long over,” he said, trying to keep his stomach from growling at the smell of fried gristle and peckwing eggs.
“Apparently, Anita had a rough morning. They postponed breakfast due to it,” Marissa said. “Virgil is out with the pecking birds and the rest are scouring the place from roof to basement today, so serving their lordships is entirely on you. You okay?”
The irritation lingered, the stress with it, and yet she wanted to make sure his lateness didn’t have to do with any harm coming to him. It was so typical of her that the care somewhat made up for the bruises left by his brother’s boot.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
“Aye? Then don’t be late again,” she said, but a smile crept over her face. “Now hop to it before your father comes in here barking at me again.”
Helmer didn’t need to be told twice. He left the kitchen, walking through the hallway to the dining room, balancing several steaming trays of food on his thick forearms.
At seventeen, Helmer had built most of his bulk from taking on the more demanding tasks of acting as a house servant. This meant that his academy-raised and lean-muscled brothers looked like house pets next to him. Their father often encouraged the violence that occurred between his sons, believing that this would make capable men out of them. Aside from Andre and Israh, the third son in line, Helmer’s imposing size had kept the rest of his older brothers at bay more than once.
Today, the clan was on their best behavior in front of their newest stepmother. Since Helmer’s birth, Cruor had taken on upwards of five wives at once and still his line of sons did not grow.
Cursed the whispers around the house had said. No living son would be born to Cruor Borrowmag, they would say.
It didn’t matter whether Anita gave birth to a son or a daughter, her outcome would be the same as the other wives, regardless.
As soon as the child passed from her body, Cruor Borrowmag would devour her.
She would never even lay eyes on her child.
Her screams would mix with the screeching yowls of her child’s first breaths. This tradition had grown even more gruesome over the last few years as the gap grew between Helmer and any other male children born to Cruor.
Their father had only ever failed to keep this tradition twice. His own failure was also his greatest explanation of why Helmer was such a soft and useless specimen of his line. A stain on the Borrowmag name. Helmer had been born while Cruor was away on a campaign to secure the west coast of Abya Yula. His mother had fled the city before she’d gone into labor, evading capture for nearly a year.
That was, of course, until Cruor had returned to the Mother Tree.
Helmer didn’t even want to think about the lashing that Barret must have gotten after he failed to recapture the fanciful woman who had birthed Cruor’s youngest into this world, not to mention how he had also failed to bring said youngest back to the castle.
Helmer didn’t remember his mother, but sometimes when the house was quiet, he imagined he heard her voice, crooning to him tucked safely in her arms. He wondered what that had felt like. To be loved so much that she had risked her life to protect him.
Barret was the only other son who’d not taken his first breaths as his mother took her last. The rumor was that their father had been in love with Barret’s mother. He’d snuck away with the girl and started a life in the wild northern regions above Dione Mait, the Fae realm of the east. Cruor’s father had hunted them down and taken care of the embarrassing spectacle.
That day, three people had died. Barret’s mother, Cruor’s father, and the soul of the patriarch, that now sat at the head of the family table. Barret had never talked about it. Helmer had mistakenly asked his older brother about it once when he was just a child. The oldest Borrowmag son had held a blade against Helmer’s tiny throat and told him he’d slit him from ear to ear if he ever asked about it again. Helmer had never repeated the mistake.
Helmer placed his father’s plate down in front of the man, being careful not to look into his eyes.
“So, Anita, have you decided on a name yet?” Israh asked.
Helmer’s third oldest brother was tall and thin. Unlike Helmer and Barret, Israh’s eyes were a brilliant blue, his skin several shades lighter than most of his brothers’. Full lips pulled back in a toothy grin that transformed his face. To anyone casually looking at the third son, they would have found the smile warm and gentle. He wasn’t as loud as many of the brothers, but despite the softness of his voice, it lifted clearly above the noise of the unruly group of boys.
She glanced at him briefly; her face turning pink. “I thought Talon would be a nice name.”
She refused to look Israh in the eye, her cheeks flushing.
The sons could not take mates, but that didn’t mean that Cruor didn’t use his sons to lure young women into his clutches. Israh had done just that when he’d convinced an ignorant young Anita back to their home a year ago. The moment she set foot in the mansion, their father had sprung the trap, taking the young girl for his own. After the women were pregnant, Cruor didn’t care what his sons did with her as long as no harm came to his seed.
Helmer felt sick. Anita didn’t stay for their father, she stayed for Israh.
Someone probably convinced her that Israh, that soul-sucking bottom feeder, would take her away from there any day. She had to, otherwise what else would explain why she hadn’t run?
None of the people in Keinuka knew exactly what happened to the wives, but it took little speculation. Women would come in and never leave. Babies were born, and yet no mothers or children emerged from the birthing bed. Because of Cruor’s standing in the community—the Borrowmags was one of the oldest families in Keinuka—and because of his affiliation with Morrigan, everyone turned a blind eye.
Helmer didn’t wait around to hear the rest of the conversation. Without a sound, he bowed out, turning back to the kitchen to get more food.
***
Just as quickly as Helmer had served the meal, he was returning to scoop empty plates up to take back to the kitchen. He leaned to grab his father’s plate, only to have the Senior Borrowmag grab him with fingers of steel. Helmer looked up at his father with wide eyes.
“What do you say, Helmer?”
Helmer fought the panic rising in his chest. “About what, sir? I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t listening to your conversation.”
His throat tightened around the words. They were automatic and well-practiced, but saying them always brought a bout of nausea.
Cruor grinned. “That a’ boy. Finally, learning.”
Cruor leaned back in his chair, taking a bone off the plate Helmer still held in front of him, using the thinner end to pick scraps of meat from between his teeth.
Cruor was older in appearance than his sons, but his dark chocolate skin and brilliant eyes, thick muscular build, and tall stature made him look like a bronzed god. Hyena spots peppered his temples, fading into the clean skin of his scalp like tattoos.
Cruor’s tone was so casual he could have been discussing the weather. “We were deliberating over what we should do if the little screamer she’s carrying is a girl.”
“I-I don’t k-know, sir,” Helmer ground out, throat swelling around his words.
Blood drained from his face as he stole a look at Anita. Her bright blue eyes looked desperate, massive, as she looked at his father.
Anita’s voice pitched in panic. “No! Cruor, no! I’m sure the baby is a boy!”
His smile was sickly sweet and terrifying as anger seethed behind their golden orange depths. It would not surprise Helmer if his head started spinning in a full circle by the way he turned it to his wife.
“Is that so? How can you be so sure, wife?” he asked, lips wrapping around the last word like a snake around its prey.
She swept her gaze to her lap where her hands folded protectively together so tight her knuckles went white. “The child is strong, not feeble like us females.”
As though to illustrate her point, her swollen belly gave a heave as the life inside it bucked and kicked against Anita’s skin. She looked up at Cruor with a shaky smile, trying to mask the lingering desperation. She must have thought she would be different. Perhaps even that she was under Israh’s protection.
Anita caressed the mound of her stomach. “See? He agrees.”
“We shall see,” Cruor said. His crooning tone fooled no one, his body was chorded tight, ever the predator getting ready to spring. He turned his attention back to Helmer. “Out.”
Gladly, Helmer thought as he hastened back to the kitchen.
Entering through the swinging doors, he ran smack dab into Andre’s back and, though he backed up quickly, he caught sight of Marissa cowering on the other side of his menace of a brother, trapped between Andre and the counter.
Helmer let out a growl before he could think better of it. “You think that’s smart?”
Andre whistled, turning around. “Oh-hoo, look who grew a pair.”
Helmer wasn’t happy about having to draw his brother’s attention, but there was satisfaction in seeing Marissa moving out of Andre’s reach. Helmer didn’t look at her, eyes locked on Andre’s. They were the same height and breadth, but where Helmer would usually cower since, despite what Andre thought, he knew his place and was well aware of how easily Cruor would turn him away if he didn’t adhere to it, this time he stood his ground.
“I mean, is it smart?” he heard himself say. “Sounded to me like you’re on a tight leash after whatever stunt you pulled in the streets. Did you actually go hunting?” He tutted, shaking his head to punctuate his point.
He didn’t see his brother move, but he knew it was coming as the older man swung on him. Pain erupted over Helmer’s face as Andre’s hand collided with his cheek, making stars explode in his vision.
“Self-righteous little prick.” Andre stalked out of the kitchen.
“That was stupid,” Marissa said.
“Yeah, made him leave, though.”
Helmer rubbed his jaw. His smile was wry, the welt left behind puckering his skin, a bruise already forming where Andre had hit him. It wouldn’t last ten minutes. He might not have magic, but at least Kishi were blessed with quick healing.
“You’re lucky that’s all he did,” Marissa said. “Thanks, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”
Helmer’s eyes narrowed. “No, I suppose I didn’t,” he said nonchalantly, though of course there had been no other choice to be made. He knew she could read it in the tone of his voice, making a smile light up her eyes with her gratitude.
She didn’t know all he suffered from Andre, but she knew enough.
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After cleaning up from breakfast, and once Helmer could be confident Andre wasn’t coming back, he took the shopping list from Marissa. Accepting the small satchel of coins she held out for him, he headed out the back door, turning towards the market.
Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the back of his skull, rough hands wrapping around his arms.
“Where do you want to take him?”
Israh’s voice. Then Andre was leaning down to look Helmer in the eye, replying, “Down the alley, we wouldn’t want to get blood anywhere Father or Barret can see. Like this little meat sack pointed out, they won’t put up with any of my antics today.”
Israh groaned. “Gods, we feed him too much.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll break your jaw, so you have to eat through a straw for a while.”
Helmer, too dazed to respond, the pain in the back of his head throbbing with every heartbeat. Good thing is, at least I know it’s still beating. That blessing would twist into a curse after Andre got ahold of him..
