Throne Shaker (The Clash and the Heat Book 3)

by Val Saintcrowe

  Behind the tree, there was a wide hole. It descended down into the earth beneath the tree.

  “You stay above and keep watch, my queen,” said Bisset.

  “No, I’m coming along,” I said. But I did let Bisset go first.

  He sat at the edge of the hole and dangled his feet down. He couldn’t find the bottom of the hole. He lowered himself carefully, keeping a grip on the side of the hole.

  “There,” he murmured. “My feet are barely brushing the bottom.” He let go and then hunched down. “It’ll be tight, but there’s a sort of tunnel down here.”

  I climbed down after him.

  We crawled through the low tunnel in the dark, and the nerves I was feeling expanded to full-on dread.

  Up ahead, we suddenly saw a light.

  A flame, like a small torch, had been lit.

  Bisset halted for a moment, and then he took off at double the speed, heading for the light. “Ophelie!” he called out, his voice fierce.

  I hurried after him.

  We emerged into a wider area, a tunneled-out room. Ophelie was standing in the middle of the place and her hand was lit up with flame. We could see the dirt ceiling and Ophelie’s face.

  “Where is she?” Bisset straightened up as he entered the room.

  “It’s before noon,” I said. “We won. You must—”

  My voice cut off then, because Ophelie lit up all over, from her head to her toes, a bright torch.

  And I saw Marguerite.

  She was lying on her back on the dirt floor, and her neck was missing. It was burned out, blackened, empty. Marguerite’s stomach was the same way. Her face was intact, and her eyes were closed.

  She was dead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bisset lurched for her body.

  Ophelie stepped into his path.

  He would have fought through her flames, getting himself burnt to death, too, but I tugged on his arm and pulled him back.

  “It’s before noon,” I said again, my voice strangled and strange.

  “She was dead when I crawled into your bed, Fleur,” said Ophelie through the flames. “You know me, don’t you? Would you really believe I would have any reason to keep her alive? I wanted to kill her, for pleasure. I wanted to watch you run around and try to find her, too. That was pleasure as well.”

  Bisset was shaking. “I fought at your side, Lyon. We were brothers in arms.”

  “I could never be your brother,” said Ophelie. “I lack the proper appendage between my legs.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Bisset.

  “She doesn’t, though,” I said. “That’s the thing. She doesn’t feel anything except when she’s murdering people.”

  “Why?” whispered Bisset.

  “Pleasure, I told you,” said Ophelie. “Temptation. I saw her, and I wanted her. I can have whatever I want. No one can stop me.”

  Bisset lunged for her again, but I yanked on him hard, and used the force to propel myself forward.

  I collided with Ophelie, putting my hands on her and throwing out my magic. I doused her, and the fire went out, bathing us in darkness.

  She screamed out something unintelligible, ripping herself out of my arms.

  I reached for her, but she evaded me.

  Bisset roared.

  I heard the sounds of the two of them going through the tunnel.

  I stayed there. I knelt down and felt in the darkness until I found Marguerite’s flesh. It was cold. She’d been dead for a long time.

  I let out a sob.

  Not Marguerite.

  She didn’t deserve this. Of all the people I knew, all the people I loved, she was the one who was simply good. Through and through, there was nothing in her that was cruel or selfish. If there was any kind of justice in the world, this would never have happened.

  * * *

  Sometime later, Bisset came back with a torch. He was panting and bleeding.

  “Is she dead yet?” I said. “Or are you going to keep her alive and make her suffer?”

  “She got away,” said Bisset, nostrils flaring.

  “What?” I got up from Marguerite’s body. “You were right behind her.”

  “You and I both know how skilled she is. I’m distraught and sleep deprived and—blaze it all.” He fell to his knees.

  I sank my hands into my hair. “Blazes, I shouldn’t have let you go after her. I should have done it. I—”

  “No, I wanted it,” said Bisset through clenched teeth. He shined the torch over Marguerite’s body. He let out a hitching breath. “Oh, blazes, my darling, I’m so sorry.”

  I knelt down next to him, putting my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find Ophelie. We will. And when we do, I’ll rip her heart out.”

  He shut his eyes, and he didn’t respond.

  I clutched his shoulder.

  The only sound in the earthy room was his breathing.

  Suddenly, I wrapped my arms around his broad chest, squeezing him. “Oh, blazes, Bisset. I can’t believe—it’s a dream. It must be. An awful dream.”

  He made a noise deep in his throat. “I knew she was gone. I knew it.”

  “No,” I said, tears overtaking me.

  We cried together there, holding onto each other.

  We cried for a long time.

  * * *

  Bisset didn’t cry during the funeral. He was stony and distant. He didn’t speak. Not during the ceremony, not when her pyre was lit, not after it was all over. I tried to speak to him, but he was destroyed, and I could see that.

  I wasn’t much better myself.

  I knew it was wretched to make it about my own pain, but I felt as though I had lost everything. I had no one anymore. When I’d come from Dumonte, I’d brought five people with me. I had none of them anymore, because though Bisset was technically present, he was ruined.

  More than that, what hurt was knowing that Marguerite had been killed because of me. I had brought Ophelie into my inner circle, I had kept her with me all the time. If I hadn’t, Ophelie wouldn’t have been so close to Marguerite, and she would never have been tempted.

  So, it was my fault.

  More than that, maybe all of it was my fault. I’d driven both Remy and Guillame away because I’d been selfish. I’d wanted them both, and now I had neither.

  And Bisset, I’d pushed him to have a relationship with Marguerite. Maybe if he’d followed his vows the way he thought he should, maybe then he wouldn’t be so hurt.

  I felt horrid.

  I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t bring Marguerite back. Her absence was a hole in my world. I would wake each day, and the fact that she was gone would be my first thought. My second thought would be that it was my own fault.

  I needed to do something.

  I decided that Ophelie needed to be hunted down, but that normal people couldn’t do it, owing to her power over the living flame. So, I went to the dozen people who had been mutated by explosions and I sent them out looking for her. I told them that they would help me bring justice to anyone that wanted to use their power over the living flame for evil.

  They searched, but Ophelie wasn’t found.

  And time passed.

  First weeks, then a month.

  My belly began to noticeably protrude. I examined the way the skin stretched tight over the baby when the little one rolled and kicked. Sometimes, the baby would get the hiccups, and this would make me laugh for some reason. There wasn’t much in me that felt joy, but the baby brought me happiness.

  I thought of how Marguerite was going to help me once the child was born, how that would never happen. I thought about how Ophelie should be slowly dismembered so that she could feel just half of the pain she had inflicted in her life.

  And no one found her. She stayed hidden somewhere.

  I began to despair we’d ever find her.

  But I should have realized she couldn’t say away. She and I, there was something between us. She had admired me. I had care
d about her. She was still drawn to me.

  And so, finally, she came back.

  Not in my chamber again. Perhaps she had decided that was growing boring, she’d done it so many times.

  Instead, I was walking on a path in the woods, probably the same one that Marguerite had been walking on. I had two guards with me, but Ophelie took them out silently, stabbing them in the backs while they walked behind me.

  I heard a gurgle—not even a cry—and I turned to see her with the second one, slowly lowering him to the ground as she eased the knife out of his body.

  Our eyes locked.

  My nostrils flared.

  She pointed the knife at me. “Maybe it’s finally time, Fleur. I find I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I had a knife too, and I drew it. After feeling helpless with the unloaded pistol and thinking about needing a knife, I’d taken to wearing one constantly and leaving it nearby when I slept.

  Ophelie’s knife was bigger and thicker and longer than mine.

  That only meant that I’d have to get closer to stick this in her throat.

  But no.

  I wouldn’t kill her if I could help it. I’d promised Bisset that honor. I raised my knife and I raised my chin. “Come to kill me at last, then? Just try me.”

  She cocked her head and took a step sideways.

  I moved as well.

  We circled each other.

  “I don’t know if I want to kill you,” said Ophelie. “It’s confusing, I suppose. But you seem to be the only thing keeping me here. If I rid the world of you, I’ll be free.”

  “Oh, poor Ophelie,” I said caustically. “Trapped by her instincts and temptations. You know, any pity I had for you evaporated when you killed Marguerite. You’re not a person, you’re a fiend.”

  “You think to hurt me with your words?” She laughed.

  “You admired me once,” I said.

  “A long time ago,” she said.

  She lunged.

  I sidestepped.

  She caught her balance quickly, like a dancer. She slashed with her knife.

  I backed away quickly, barely missing being nicked by the blade. But I wasn’t as nimble on my feet as she was, considering my belly threw me off balance. I stumbled backward and only narrowly avoiding going sprawling by catching myself against a nearby tree trunk. My back against the bark, I gasped in a breath. From this vantage point, by swollen belly was even more visible than it normally would be.

  She blinked at it, hesitating.

  I pushed off the tree trunk and squared my shoulders. I advanced on her.

  Her turn to back away. She held her knife in front of her, and she shot a glance over her shoulder, like a flighty prey animal.

  But I knew not to get cocky. The last thing I could ever do was underestimate her. I let her think I was buying her act, though, pressing my advantage, getting even closer to her.

  Abruptly, she struck, thrusting her knife forward.

  I swerved to one side, seizing her wrist and tugging her against me. Our bodies collided, and I reached into her and found her magic. Instead of dousing it, I sucked it into me, and once it touched my skin, it burst out, blazing bright, twice as powerful.

  She let out a little cry, trying to get away from me.

  I poured flames into her face.

  They didn’t burn her, but they startled her and her grip loosened on the knife.

  I twisted her wrist.

  She dropped her weapon.

  I brought my knife into her, stabbing her just below her ribs.

  She grunted.

  “That’s how it feels,” I whispered. “Have you ever been cut by a knife before, Ophelie?”

  Her eyes were wild, and we were close. Her face was inches from mine, and my hand was slippery on the knife as her blood seeped out onto my skin. It soaked through my clothes, staining my shirt where it strained against my belly.

  She struggled, pulling away.

  I lost my grip on the knife.

  She staggered backward, the hilt protruding from her stomach. She touched it gingerly. “This won’t kill me.”

  I closed the distance between us.

  She pulled the knife out. Blood gushed out of her. She panted. She tossed my knife from one hand to the other and she rushed me, laughing.

  We went down on the ground, her on top.

  She pushed the tip of the knife under my chin. “Fleur,” she whispered.

  We were touching everywhere. I reached into her and doused her magic. I wanted her this close. I wanted to cut her off from her power, so that when I took her to Bisset, he’d have no worries about—

  That was strange.

  I felt something, something different than I’d felt before. It was a well of magic inside Ophelie. It was similar to the borders of the living flame below Islaigne. I could feel where the magic began and ended. I could feel where it was fed, and I realized that I could douse it entirely.

  I could turn off her power, just like turning down an oil lamp.

  I could end her magic.

  And, laughing, I did it.

  She felt it.

  She coughed, sitting back, a confused look on her face.

  I scrambled backwards, gritting my teeth. “You’ll never burn anyone again.”

  “You took it,” she murmured.

  I kicked her in the face.

  She roared, her nose bleeding.

  I kicked her again.

  She wavered and then fell over. I had knocked her out.

  * * *

  Ophelie was tied to a chair in the makeshift dungeons of the fortress. Her face was bruised and purple, her nose twice its normal size.

  She spat blood out, glaring at me. “You can’t think you’ll hold me here. Even without my magic, I was always able to do whatever I wanted. No one could hold me, not even you.”

  “You won’t live to do anything,” I said to her. I was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over my chest. “Bisset is on his way. I promised him he could have you, do whatever he wishes with you.”

  “Bisset?” She scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. If anyone’s going to kill me, it’s you, Fleur. Bisset is an errand boy. He’s no one.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry if it offends you.”

  She struggled against her bonds. “It’s that babe growing in your belly, that’s what gave me pause. If I had only waited until you’d birthed that brat—”

  “Yes, you’re an idiot,” I said. “You’re not nearly as clever as you thought you were. You’re not nearly as ruthless. And in the end, you have weaknesses just like the rest of us, don’t you?”

  “I’m not weak,” she growled.

  I rubbed my hand over my belly.

  “Stop that,” she muttered.

  There was a knock at the door.

  I opened it. Bisset was there, face drawn. He stepped inside the room and I shut the door behind him. “I can stay if you’d like,” I said. “Or I can leave you alone with her. Whatever you wish.”

  He sucked in breath through his nose and he didn’t answer. He just watched Ophelie.

  “Fleur, please,” said Ophelie quietly. “Think of all the services I provided for you. If it weren’t for me, you’d never even have made it back to your country. You can’t simply forget all of that. I deserve—”

  “Shut up,” said Bisset.

  Ophelie laughed. “If you think you can tell me what to do, Bisset, you’re vastly mistaken. You always looked to me when we worked together. You let me take the lead. Because you’ve never been anything other than a loyal dog wagging his tail. You’re nothing.”

  Bisset’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “You’re frightened, Lyon, and I can tell because I hear how your voice is two shades too high-pitched. You were rarely afraid, owing to the fact you always seemed to have difficulty conceiving of harm befalling you, but every once and a while, we’d get close enough to our own demise that I’d hear you talk that way. You don’t ha
ve to worry. I’m not going to kill you.”

  “You want me to do it, then?” I said quietly. “I don’t mind. Do you want to watch?”

  “I want her to live,” said Bisset.

  “What?” The words ripped out of me.

  He knelt down and took a dagger out of a holster on his ankle. He turned it over in his hand, surveying the blade. “I was a model musqueteer. None of the other men I knew ever tried hard enough to fulfill everything that we were meant to be. It was as if they didn’t understand that we were holy, devout men.”

  “Bisset,” I said, “I know this about you, but musqueteers are never squeamish about killing, even so. She deserves to die.”

  “She deserves to suffer,” he said, looking up from the blade and fixing his gaze on Ophelie.

  Ophelie flinched a little.

  Bisset took a step towards her. “First thing in the morning, musqueteers are to wake and read daily devotionals, selections from the scriptures. Then we are to engage in prayer, asking the blaze to work within us and guide us toward its will.”

  I decided not to say anything. I knew this, too, and Bisset knew that I knew. He had some reason he wanted to say it out loud. It would be best to let him get it out.

  “Most of the other men never did the devotionals, but I did,” said Bisset. “It was the same verses of scripture for each day of the year—year after year. After all that time, one begins to commit large swaths of the words to memory.”

  I would kill Ophelie, no matter what he was saying. If he was going to quote some platitudes about mercy, I would not be swayed. These scriptures were not the scriptures of Islaigne.

  Bisset took another step toward Ophelie, lifting his dagger.

  She shied away from the point of the blade.

  “Do you remember what you said to me when we found you with her body, Lyon?” said Bisset.

  Ophelie bared her teeth at him.

  “Answer me.” Bisset’s voice was quiet.

  “I remember you couldn’t catch me, because you were slowed by your stupid, worthless tears,” she said.

  “You said there was temptation,” said Bisset. “You saw her, and you wanted her. Do you know what the scriptures tell us about temptation?” His voice had gotten quieter, almost soothing.