The shadows have risen, and the line is law.
We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Bloodmarked, the second book in the Legendborn Cycle by Tracy Deonn, out from Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers on November 8.
All Bree wanted was to uncover the truth behind her mother’s death. So she infiltrated the Legendborn Order, a secret society descended from King Arthur’s knights—only to discover her own ancestral power. Now, Bree has become someone new:
A Medium. A Bloodcrafter. A Scion.
But the ancient war between demons and the Order is rising to a deadly peak. And Nick, the Legendborn boy Bree fell in love with, has been kidnapped.
Bree wants to fight, but the Regents who rule the Order won’t let her. To them, she is an unknown girl with unheard-of power, and as the living anchor for the spell that preserves the Legendborn cycle, she must be protected.
When the Regents reveal they will do whatever it takes to hide the war, Bree and her friends must go on the run to rescue Nick themselves. But enemies are everywhere, Bree’s powers are unpredictable and dangerous, and she can’t escape her growing attraction to Selwyn, the mage sworn to protect Nick until death.
If Bree has any hope of saving herself and the people she loves, she must learn to control her powers from the ancestors who wielded them first—without losing herself in the process.
An introduction from the author: In Legendborn, all Bree wanted was to uncover the truth behind her mother’s death. So she infiltrated the Legendborn Order, a secret society descended from King Arthur’s knights—only to discover her own ancestral power. Now, in Bloodmarked, Bree has become someone new: A Medium, a Bloodcrafter, and a Scion. In this excerpt from Bloodmarked chapter two, she finds herself caught outside the magical protection of the Legendborn mansion, facing foes both familiar and new.
***
Sel has frozen in place. Only his eyes dart up and down his diminishing ward, taking in the twelve whirlpools emptying into the foxes’ mouths. I can’t tell if he’s thinking or freaking out. God, I hope it’s not the latter. I don’t want to see Sel freaking out.
This is the double-edged sword of using aether to fight powerful Shadowborn. It can be wielded as a weapon… or our enemies can consume it to grow stronger. Sometimes in the same battle.
William tenses beside me.A Gawain dagger now rests in each of his fists. “We could alert the others.”
Sel blinks back into action, shaking his head. “No time.”
I step forward, and the motion catches the attention of the largest fox. Its mouth snaps shut, and it lowers its head to level a dark green gaze directly at me. The foxes on either side of it turn too, fixing me with stares.
“They know who Bree is,” Sel snarls. “They’re here for her.” He barks orders without taking his eyes off the legion. “Get her back up the cliff to the Lodge. If they get past me, head to the basement and open the Wall of Ages. Seal the wall behind you, escape through the tunnels.” He sheds his duster to reveal the T-shirt below, freeing his arms and upper body for battle. “I’ll hold them.”
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Bloodmarked
“How?” I shout. “They’re eating the ward! They’ll eat your weapon, too!”
His gaze darkens. “They’ll have to catch it first.”
Sel strides toward the foxes, growing his hurricane. The wind whistles and picks up speed then settles into the shape he wants: a single long, silver aether chain that keeps growing, link by link, on the ground. On one end, a heavy, round weight the size of a softball materializes; on the other, a handle attached to a wicked-looking arced blade.
I immediately recognize the weapon from training sessions in the arena, staged with Sel’s own aether beasts: It’s a chain scythe. A weapon to ensnare, pull close, and slice an enemy clean through.
Sel grasps the sickle in his left hand and, with a grunt, yanks the heavy-ball weight on the other end of the chain up into the air. The muscles in his back and arms flex as he pulls the airborne weight into a wide overhead spin. By the second rotation, the ball is moving so fast it’s a silver, whistling blur against the darkness. The foxes’ screeching grows louder.
Two warm palms pull my face away from the sight. I twist, gasping, to face William. His eyes bore into mine, now glowing the deep, pulsing green of Gawain. He yells over the noise. “If he has to protect you, he won’t protect himself!”
“But—”
“We need to run, Bree!”
I gulp and nod. Okay.
We run.
But it’s too late. We only make it a few strides toward the stone stairs on the cliffside before William shouts in alarm.
A large shadow streaks down the cliff, a black bullet in the shape of a man— and aims right toward me.
Without stopping or slowing, the shadow bends at the last second and upends me over their shoulder in a single, gut-swooping motion. The world twists upside down. Breath leaves me in a painful wheeze. They pivot in a blink, locking me in place with an arm across my thighs, and run back the way they came before William can react.
I’m already dizzy, but panic sends my mind spinning. My head bounces against my captor’s back with each step, breaking my thoughts into jagged pieces.
A Shadowborn legion. Fully corporeal—powerful enough to take out the underpowered Legendborn. Sel on his own at the border, outmatched.
Captured. Someone took me from inside the ward—can’t be a demon. Not a goruchel shapeshifter. A human figure attacked me, just as Sel turned away timed perfectly with the demon attack, too perfectly—
Suddenly, the answer flashes through my mind.
“My mistress, Morgaine ” Rhaz had warned us, warned me—
Shadowborn and Morgaines working together. Allied against the Order.
My survival brain kicks in. Rage pumps clarity through my veins.
I won’t be taken.
The Morgaine has us halfway up the stone staircase, with William giving chase in full armor. I pound at the figure’s spine with a closed fist. Once. Twice.
“Oomph.” The Morgaine grunts under Arthur’s strength—good—and trips, nearly dropping me.
Before I can strike again, the Morgaine tightens their left arm against my legs—and springs up the rest of the cliff, landing us at the top in a single jump.
A heartbeat later, and they’ve leapt again. This time we land in the large lower limbs of the giant white oak tree that stands in the woods between the Lodge and the arena.
Still draped on their shoulders, my chest rises with theirs when they take a deep inhale—and jump again, and again, until we are six stories up in one of the tree’s middle branches.
Abruptly, they bend, sliding me down to my feet until my back rests against the wide trunk. The branch below me is just broad enough that both of my feet can fit. The hard bark at my spine is somewhat reassuring, but we’re terrifyingly far off the ground.
In a matter of seconds, the Morgaine has trapped me too high up to escape, even with Arthur’s strength in my legs.
The fox legion echoes in the distance—shrieks and clicks, then angry howls. As my attacker darts along the tree limb, they are illuminated by quick flashes of green and blue aether. The person is my height, drenched in a belted black leather tunic and tactical pants. Fingerless gloves reveal pale fingers. The Morgaine’s face and hair are hidden by the heavy drape of a black leather cowl as they survey the ground below.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see my enemy to fight them.
As soon as they are within striking distance, I step into a jab, throw my weight into it—only for my right fist to be caught tight in their own, shot up at the last second without a glance in my direction.
Their hand engulfs mine in a confident grip with plenty of strength behind it, strength that could turn crushing—
I twist. Find balance. Kick at their knee—force them to release me.
They shift back—I surge forward.
A right hook to their ribs. They pivot away before it lands—too fast—grasp my forearm, use my momentum, pull me off balance. I stumble into them, nearly slipping off the branch. They hold my wrist tight.
Then, the Morgaine chuckles.
Chuckles.
They’re… laughing? At me?
An angry growl roars up from my gut to my chest—and my red root flares to life. Blooms bright at my elbow and rushes down my wrist until both our fists are engulfed in flames.
But only one of us gets burned.
My attacker yelps in pain, leaping back on the branch. They land deftly in a crouch, balanced on their heels, cradling one gloved hand against their chest and hissing lowly from the forest’s shadows.
The light of my root pools around me. At my fists, it pulses in time with my heartbeat, words made rhythm. I-won’t-run. I-won’t-run. I won’t-run. I know without seeing my reflection that my eyes have taken on the glowing crimson of my Bloodcraft.
Even my attacker’s eyes shine with the flames of my ancestors.
I raise my chin. “Who’s laughing now?”
Silence for one beat, two. Then, the low chuckle returns, followed by an amused, accented, young male voice. “Still me… my liege.”
The root around my hands flickers. My liege. My eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“So it’s true.” The stranger’s r rolls lightly. Scottish, maybe? “What they say about yer aether.”
“What do you know about my aether?” I snap. Abruptly, he raises his head to look at me. Warmth hits my cheeks in a wave. My root flares again. “Who are you?”
He holds up a defensive hand. “I’m—”
Thwip! A bright blue aether whip cracks in the air, snaking around my attacker’s ankle from below. He tenses. “Ach, shite.”
The glowing whip tightens—and yanks him clean off the branch.
But my attacker is fast. While falling, he produces an aether blade in one hand and slices the whip through.
Selwyn is fast, too. He’s on the other boy before he even hits the ground. In a millisecond, the newcomer is flat on his back with Selwyn towering over him, whip now lengthened into a jagged blade pointed at his throat. Sel’s chest heaves; he’s winded, or furious, or both. Yellow-green dust and globs of ichor run in streaks down his face and cheek, onto his shoulders. Bits of dead demon drape around his shoulders like a mantle. There was a dozen in that legion… did he kill them all?
Selwyn may not like me right now, but he is here to protect me. Even if my mind doesn’t quite process that fact, my magic does. My root flames dampen, then fade. I sway a bit but hold steady. Small bursts of root don’t drain me like they used to, thank goodness.
“I should kill you for touching her.” I know Sel means me, but after our fight, the angry, possessive tone that reaches me up in the trees seems out of place. Like he’s talking about someone else. The Crown Scion, not Bree. “I should ,” he murmurs, “and I think I might.”
“Kane!” The newcomer tears his hood off, revealing tousled, dark auburn hair, long on the top and shorn on the sides—and a pair of glowing golden eyes. A young white man, not more than twenty.
Sel blinks. “Douglas?”
My captor is a Merlin. Not a Morgaine at all. A wave of confusion and embarrassment passes through me. Why would a Merlin try to kidnap me?
“Long time no see.” Douglas’s soft Scottish brogue wraps its way around his speech.
“A very long time.” Sel’s stony expression sends a trickle of apprehension down my spine. I’m not the only one who notices that he doesn’t lower his blade.
“Drop your weapon, Kingsmage,” Douglas commands.
Sel’s lip curls upward. “When I feel like it.”
“Selwyn!” I hear William’s voice and running footsteps. He pushes through the bramble and appears beneath my tree. “Where’s Bree?”
“I’m here!” I call out. William’s head tilts back to find me overhead, and his glowing green eyes widen.
Sel glances up at me for the first time. “She’s safe.”
“Thanks to me.” Douglas takes the opportunity of Sel’s distraction to elbow Sel’s blade aside and jump to his feet.
“Why should I thank you for your services”—Sel smirks and points at Douglas’s right hand with his blade—“when it looks like Briana herself already did the honors?”
“Heh,” Douglas huffs, flipping his palm over. Even this high up, I can see the burned hole in the center of the leather glove. His head tips back until he meets my eyes. His grin is a flash of white teeth and long canines in the night. “That she did.”
Sel is no longer amused. “Douglas, you—”
“Noswaith dda, Selwyn.”
A new voice enters the clearing. Low and smooth like warm honey, it slips down my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The new Merlin that emerges from the trees has warm olive skin and thick black hair slicked back into an undercut. As he steps out, he adjusts his long black overcoat. A silver Legendborn symbol is stitched on each wide lapel. Silver grommets at his shoulders wink in the shadows.
The man stares at Sel, expectant. In response, Sel widens his fingers to release the forged weapon. It dissipates into a sparkling cloud before it can hit the ground. To my surprise, Sel swallows audibly and straightens his shoulders before addressing the newcomer.
“Noswaith dda, Mage Seneschal.”
My stomach drops. If the man below me is a Mage Seneschal, then he is one of the highest-ranking Merlins in the Order. An advisor on the High Council of Regents.
As if on cue, four figures melt from the woods, two on either side of the Seneschal. Mage flame swirls around their palms and wrists, alive and ready to be cast. Their eyes—golden, shining, bright—pierce through the dissipating mist and show me exactly who they are. But it’s their attire that tells the full story. Tactical gear makes them deadly shadows at every turn: sleek boots; black pants; and heavy, hooded tunics, cowls raised high, casting their faces in darkness. Leather fingerless gloves striped with silver—aether-conducting thread. All of them, tall and broad-shouldered, radiate power and control. They have paused in unison behind the Seneschal like kinetic energy restrained.
Another realization strikes like a physical blow.
These Merlins are Mageguard, the elite military unit of the Order’s forces.
Which means this is not just any Seneschal of the Council. This is Erebus Varelian, the Seneschal of Shadows. The most powerful Merlin in the world.
I gasp. Abruptly, heat like I’ve never felt before scalds my skin and cheeks. Burns from multiple Merlin eyes raised to find me, so harsh I wince.
Erebus, however, slowly, deliberately turns not to me, but to inspect the remnants of the destroyed demons on Sel’s person. “It appears there are not wolves at your door, Kingsmage, but foxes.”
“I am certain the wolves are not far behind,” Selwyn says evenly.
Erebus eyes Sel for a long moment, as if deciding whether Sel is being impertinent. Whether Sel’s comment was literal, about hellhounds, or metaphorical, about our new guests. Finally, he says, “They always are.”
Excerpted from Bloodmarked, copyright © 2022 by Tracy Deonn.
