The King's Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

servants, the apartments fell into misuse and eventual disrepair. It was Lord Albrant's father who finally closed the entire place off, saying it was haunted or something idiotically believable that would deter bored children and teenagers who spent their whole lives stirring spoons in sauce pans.
    The dust was thick, like dancing wisps in the low light, coating Ciara's tongue and making for her lungs. She coughed as quietly as she could, and pushed the door back, realizing that in her haste she'd forgotten a lantern. Whatever beam of light emanated from the kitchen and bounced up the staircase would have to be her guide through the maze of broken lives. Widening the door instead, she put one hand to the edge of the room and, finding a sturdy bed post, shuffled along.  
    In the silence of the dead, the roar of whatever dragon demons were attacking the great hall was amplified. She could almost make out some words filtering through as she inched along, her fingers dusting bed frames, dressers, and old dolls.
    "...get 'im..."
    "...where's the bo..."
    "...walrus....coo...coo..."
    Shit! Her boot smashed into a bed crashed on its side from the frame half rotted away. She stopped, counting her breaths and praying that whoever was looking for a walrus hadn't heard. But the clatter of battle was more overpowering than a girl stubbing her toe.
    Carefully moving to the middle, she shuffled out, almost to the door and the actually lit hallways. As her fingertips touched the knob, a creak cried out behind her. She paused, afraid to turn around. Another creak, complete with some crackling as wood splintered apart, lapsed to a small whine at her intrusion. Rising on her tiptoes, she cautiously lifted the latch and leaned gently into the door. Nothing happened.
    Oh no, no, no. He didn't board it up again, did he? It'd been years since she'd been dared by her brother to sneak into the haunted wing and got a resound scolding by her mother and a much quieter nod of admiration from her father.  
    Leaning again into the door, she prayed that it was simply stuck thanks to warping wood. The bed behind her remained silent, the ghosts watching the living girl for now instead of getting freaky on it. Again the latch gave in, and again the door refused to budge. She shoved a bit harder, pushing upon it with her hand, then her whole shoulder.
    Turning her back to it, she bounced on her heels, cursing everyone and every god she could think of, and, in a final fit of rage, she kicked the door as hard as she could.
    That was the signal. With one final crack, the entire termite riddled bed came crashing down, its posts auguring through rotted boards and shattering. The front half hung precariously over the new hole, threatening to bring sleep to some unsuspecting head.
    Ciara held her breath, hoping that would somehow reverse time and keep that gods forsaken bed from smashing through the floor. Through the background thumping of her heartbeat, she heard voices, very interested voices, giving very pointed orders. She rushed back towards the kitchen door, wishing she'd closed the damn thing in the first place and missed the broken bed leg now laying across her path. Her shoe; however, did not and she crumbled, leaving a Ciara shaped hole in the dusty floor.
    The voices outside grew louder. Footsteps that were   once background noise became evident. Crawling into the darkness, Ciara's form receded into the shadows behind a long rotted chest. She turned, afraid to watch the latch on the door lift. The clink of it falling repeatedly with each failed push broke upon her shattered nerves. Ciara bit down on her tongue to stifle a scream, her only hope was to pray they'd give up on the wedged door and move on.  
    Grunts, the kind only men can give while trying to do anything from hauling logs to opening a jar, answered from across the room.
    She looked to the kitchen door, its light not touching her. If she risked it, she might be able to make for it before they