Déjà Vu & Gin

by Heather R. Blair

  When I step inside, my boots echo against the marble all the way to the throne room. I’m admittedly on edge as it is, but the whole scene is just plain eerie. I draw my sword before I step inside.

  They’re waiting for me.

  The prince is standing on the dais, Konstantin on his right, Anastasia on his left. She’s dressed in his colors again. A scarlet gown, embroidered heavily with gold. Her arms and shoulders are bare, but her porcelain skin glimmers and I realize they’ve dusted her with gold. Even her silver curls glint in the light. She’s beautiful as always, but she doesn’t look real. Vasilisa’s arm is around her waist and she’s leaning on him. My lips tighten. Vasilisa smiles before he passes her to Konstantin. The elemental takes her arm with care, holding her steady when she stumbles, her skirts fluttering and billowing in a hundred different directions and I finally notice they are made of feathers.

  Thousands and thousands of dyed and gilded feathers.

  It’s then that I notice the crown. My heart stutters in my chest. My ice queen.

  No.

  Vasilisa steps forward, drawing my gaze. “You actually did it.”

  Funny. I was thinking the same thing. But it can’t be. The crown must mean something else. There’s no way Ana would’ve married . . . I told her to wait for me.

  Numbly, I toss the necklace in my hand at his feet. “Of course I did, Your Highness.” My eyes move behind him, ticking off the guards. I stop counting at thirty. Too many. Even for me.

  “Actually, it’s Your Grace now,” the prince says almost lazily.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My uncle died with the dawn.” He pauses, waiting for me to offer the sympathy we both know I don’t feel.

  “A sad day,” I murmur, “Your Grace.”

  “Not entirely. You see, I was also married this morning, too.”

  There is a roaring in my ears, and my voice turns hard before I can temper it. “Has Anastasia’s family been informed?”

  “They can speak to her after the honeymoon.” He raises his eyebrows, his eyes flinty and hard. “Her family is welcome here, and in time, they will accept what cannot be changed. But you’ll never be alone with my wife again.”

  I ignore him and that word that my ears refuse to acknowledge, my eyes only for Anastasia, who won’t meet my gaze. Something is very, very wrong here. More than this insane marriage that should have never been.

  “What did they do to you?” I whisper. Her lips tremble once, but she doesn’t answer.

  Instead, the prince moves between us. “I made her mine.”

  My vision goes black and red, a line of fire flaring down my lowered sword. Konstantin’s nostrils flare and he seems to blur briefly, but Viktor lifts a hand.

  “If you touched her—” I snarl.

  Vasilisa’s lip curls. “That is none of your concern. Not that I would ever resort to rape. Ana will come to my bed, willingly, in time. No, I simply mean that I took away the piece holding her back from me.”

  “What the fuck does that mean? Speak plainly, you jumped-up peacock, or so help me—”

  “I gave her the Ren.”

  It feels like my chest was just dropkicked by a giant. I am—was—human. I don’t have magic. The closest thing I’ve ever come to that power is my sword. And yes, I have resented magic, loathed it, and had it fascinate and repel me by turns. But Anastasia is a witch. Magic is her birthright, bred into her blood and bone. To have it torn away . . .

  “Look at me, Anastasia,” I order softly, ignoring the king. Her pale hands are shaking against those crimson feathers, but she lifts her head at last.

  When her eyes meet mine, it’s as if someone is strangling me, cutting off my oxygen from the inside out. That brilliant ice-blue has darkened, clouded and dull with a pain so deep my chest aches with the weight of it.

  “I thought you said you loved her.” When I can speak, my whisper holds such scorn even Konstantin flinches at the sound of it, as well he should. I wonder if he knew what Viktor planned to do with that bottle when he was ordered to steal it.

  The prince—king—only swallows once, but I can see the shame on his face, just a flash before he blinks and it’s gone.

  “How would you know what love is, assassin?” he sneers.

  “I know what it’s not. It’s not carving out a piece of her soul to save your own. It’s about giving up what you treasure most to save her.” I lift the sword in my hand, ignoring the guards snapping to attention around me. “I’m going to destroy you.”

  “You can’t touch me,” Vasilisa sneers, “let alone destroy me.”

  “Maybe not, but she can.”

  The king frowns and Konstantin calls the guard to arms as I raise the blade higher and take a step forward. Anastasia puts out a hand, shaking her head, looking terrified, but I ignore them all.

  Wrapping my other hand around the hilt I’ve carried closer than a brother for over a hundred years, I feel a pulse of warmth and an almost gleeful acceptance. Then I bring my sword down with all the force I have in me, slamming the Freya-forged blade into the gnome-worked marble at our feet. The impact nearly tears my shoulders from their sockets but the blade shatters with a piercing scream.

  Fire billows upward in a towering wall of multicolored flames. It coils and glows, almost too bright to bear, but at its heart is something like smoke. Reddish-black smoke.

  The fiery shadow swoops straight at Ana. Konstantin stares even as Viktor tries to step in front of her. Too late. I laugh as the guards come for me, watching as the woman I love holds out her arms and takes the only magic I ever commanded right into her heart.

  31

  It’s effervescent, like champagne in my blood.

  Light and frothy, lifting me to my toes. So much power.

  I’ve never felt power like this before. All around me, things are happening, shouts, things breaking and boots stomping, but I can’t stop staring at my hands. It’s like I’m an alien in my own body. The weight that was crushing me is gone, but I don’t feel like my old self either. This isn’t the magic I’ve known since birth, but something utterly new and strange. Witch magic is like being constantly aware of the energy that exists outside me, testing it, caressing it, gathering it. This magic is me. It’s in my heart, in my blood, in my bones.

  And it wants out.

  I gasp, watching silver and scarlet smoke plume from my mouth. It’s like I’ve eaten a soul, but I’ve never consumed a soul like this.

  I finally notice the fight around me. It shouldn’t be much of one since Tyr is facing the Firebird Prince, the Master of Shadows and a squad of palace guards over thirty-men strong.

  And thanks to me, he’s facing them all without a sword.

  But sword or not, he’s still an assassin of the realm, the best there’s ever been. Light shines through the stained glass like molten gold, spilling over the bodies. Some are moving, twitching really; some will never move again. He’s still on his feet, but they have him surrounded now, using their shields to back him slowly into a corner.

  Neither Viktor nor Konstantin has yet joined the fight, but as my eyes lift to his, Viktor has apparently had enough. He plucks a feather from the air. I watch it spin and twirl over his hand, slowly catching flame. This fire doesn’t consume, it transforms.

  A crimson arrow forms in midair, light and barbed and deadly. Viktor gives a flick of his fingers and it flies across the room. Straight for Tyr’s heart.

  I open my mouth to cast, then realize I can’t. Unsure how to deal with this new power, I simply throw out a hand, willing the arrow away from Tyr.

  It works. The arrow slides off course, slamming instead into the torso of the statue of Loki that graces the entryway next to where Tyr stands. He grins at me as the man he’s fighting takes a hasty step back. My lips curve and I take a step toward him. There’s a low groan. At first I think it’s from one of the downed men, but then the floor seems to shiver under my feet. Marble doesn’t shiver. I look up again just in time to see the sta
tue of Loki crack in half. Carved white stone slides sideways, like a deadly avalanche. Too late, Tyr looks up.

  The outstretched arm of the statue slams against the side of his head. There is a crunch and Tyr’s eyes meet mine before he slowly crumples, sliding down the wall, a smear of red streaking the gold-veined white marble.

  My scream echoes through the vaulted chamber. I spin to face Viktor, who looks triumphant once again. Without thought, I bring my hands together and an arc of flame shoots from me to him. Cobalt blue and vibrant red twist and splash, like water made fire. He pulls several feathers from the air, but they turn to ash at one drop of my brilliant fire.

  He backs away, his eyes wide.

  “You can’t . . . no one has ever.” Viktor backs away, and even Konstantin looks stunned, blurring at the edges.

  “Apparently, I can.” Thank you, Freya. I straighten, fighting the urge to run to Tyr, to make sure he’s okay. “What now, Viktor? Do I kill you or do your men try to kill me?”

  “I won’t fight you.” He lowers his hands. “Ana, please . . .”

  I snap my fingers and the fire turns into glowing gold ropes that wind their way around Viktor from throat to ankles before anyone can move, toppling him to the floor.

  “You’re making a mistake!” He curses as he falls hard. “You can’t want him more than me. You just can’t.”

  I watch him squirm against the magical ropes, just like the snake he is. My heart is pounding and I want to go to Tyr, but I can’t, not yet. “I want your vow to leave us—”

  “Let him go.” The words are quiet, but they cut across the sudden silence in the room like a blade. My eyes flick up to meet the Master of Shadows. The remaining guards snap to attention at Konstantin’s low order, even as Viktor bellows at him to stop. Konstantin ignores him. “He is our king. Let him go, leave the assassin to face his punishment, and you may yet get out of this and return to your family, my lady.”

  “If Tyr dies, so does your new king, and there is no heir.” I smile at Konstantin, but my insides are shaking. I’m not capable of killing Viktor and I’m pretty sure Konstantin knows it. Quiet stretches between us and I’m reminded vividly of what happened in my house just a few short weeks ago. That ended badly, but surely this time the fates will be on my side. I try again. “You can see this magic is even stronger than his.”

  “Perhaps,” Konstantin acknowledges. “But you do not understand it yet. You are like a child playing with matches.” He waves the guards forward.

  “A child with a book of matches can still burn a house to the ground,” I warn, becoming desperate.

  He shrugs. “We shall see.”

  Boots echo on the marble floor as the remaining guards begin to march forward. Panic tightens my throat. I lift my hands, trying not to shake as Viktor orders Konstantin to stand down once more, his voice desperate. Under all the shouting, there is a small cough. Everyone blinks and turns to the center of the throne room.

  Jett has appeared in the middle of the scorched mosaic on the floor, the king of the bruins at her side and her sword in her hand. “I do hope that this time we get to join the party.”

  Stephen snarls, his bear lurking like a menacing shadow behind him, huge and black as it claws up the white walls of the palace. Jett twirls her sword and smiles.

  Konstantin frowns, clearly calculating his odds and not liking them. With a sigh, he waves a hand at the men, who look relieved to stand down for the moment.

  I rush to Tyr at last, falling to my knees and skidding the last few feet, feathers flying around me in a storm of red and gold.

  32

  “Wake up, you stubborn connard.”

  My head aches, especially when someone shakes it again.

  “Ow.” I open one eye. “I do believe my brains have been rattled enough today, thanks.”

  Anastasia smiles, her eyes bright as freaking diamonds and twice as beautiful. Full of light and life and magic. I did good. For the first time in a long time, something like pride tightens my chest.

  I roll my neck carefully. “I’m surprised they didn’t finish me off while I was out.”

  “Well, they sure as shit tried.” There is no mistaking the amusement in Jett’s voice. “But they had . . . difficulties.”

  I sit up. I look over at the dais where the king of bruins is talking to Konstantin. Neither looks overly pleased to be talking to the other. Neither of them has released Vasilisa either, who is tied up like a carpet at their feet, I note with a tight smile.

  “Guess I made a proper fighter of you after all.”

  Anastasia ignores this, peering into my face and biting her lip. “I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up.”

  “It takes more than a bitch-slap from Loki to take me down,” I say dryly.

  Her lips curve. She sits next to me on the marble stairs, those long red skirts with their feathers trailing over the stone like blood.

  “So, you kicked his ass.”

  “Not entirely,” she says quietly. “Viktor refused to fight me.”

  I peer over her shoulder at the prince, our eyes meeting. He turns away first. I brush a silver curl back from her cheek. “You okay?”

  “I expect I will be.” She laughs but it turns into a sob. “You could have died. If I hadn’t been quick enough.”

  “But you were.” I touch my lips to hers, not so much a kiss as a caress. “You saved me.”

  She smiles tremulously. “It seemed only fair, since you gave me my magic back. Oh, Tyr, your sword.”

  I don’t want to but my gaze finds the blackened scar on the marble behind her, next to a few shards of twisted metal that are all that remain of my blade. I take in a breath, let it out. Then I look back at her.

  “It was worth it.”

  “Was it?” The words are soft, but deadly cold, and they don’t come from Anastasia’s mouth. I wince before turning.

  The goddess standing behind me does not look amused. Across the room, voices stutter and fade away.

  “Freya, love.” I smile weakly. “What are you doing here?”

  Anastasia stiffens in my arms, but I press a finger to her lips as I get to my feet. I’m dizzier than I expect. For a moment my vision spins and there seem to be three Freyas or more—please gods, no—then my gaze and my stance settle. She’s a stark contrast to the opulence around us, my spare, fierce goddess.

  Grey and white wool cover her snugly from head to foot, though her boots are a darker grey leather made from dreki wings. A cloak made of falcon feathers covers her shoulders. Those dirty-blond dreads fall halfway down her back, the lethal spikes bound to their ends touched with red in the dazzle of the fading sunset.

  She wears two blades, the names of which I know but do not speak. Neither of them is in her hand, however, so I have reason for hope.

  “Not much, gypsy,” she whispers, and her hand caresses one of the hilts at her side. “Just checking on my investment. I let you borrow my necklace to save your witch and you destroy the blade I gave you in the process?”

  I swallow and smile weakly, trying to order my thoughts. “I had to make a choice and I did.” I look over my shoulder at Anastasia, then back to the goddess. “I don’t regret it.”

  She purses her lips, but I see something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction flash over that hard, beautiful face.

  “You might in time.” There is a gleam in her eyes I don’t like. “Have you told her yet?”

  I close my eyes. Convincing the goddess to help wasn’t easy. Or free. “No.”

  Anastasia steps forward, her hand slipping into mine. “What’s she talking about, Tyr?”

  I forget that we are in a palace throne room full of people. I turn to the woman I love and force a smile. “I had to make an arrangement with Freya to get Jett and Stephen here under cover and fulfill my contract with Viktor.”

  “Contract?” She cocks her head. “But you did, you brought me to him.”

  “Yes, well, he made me take another.”

 
I glance at the foot of the throne where Brisanga lies, sparkling in the fading sunlight. Anastasia’s gaze follows mine, then she looks at the king. “You fucking bastard,” she breathes. “You were trying to kill him.” Her fingers start to smoke and she takes a step forward.

  “Easy, love.” I tug her back gently. “It’s not worth it.”

  Frowning, she turns back to Freya. “What was your agreement?”

  “I have an opening for one with his talents and newly found wisdom.” Freya stresses the last word sarcastically. “As an instructor.” She smiles at Anastasia’s gasp. “I’ve been thinking we could use some testosterone in the mix. It gets a little bitchy working with nothing but Valkyries day in and day out. Besides, I hear gender equality is a thing.”

  “Then I’ll come, too.”

  “No,” Freya says, her gaze considering. Then it turns evil. I know that look; she’s in a bargaining mood. “At least . . . not with your magic.”

  “Why?” my witch demands. “My sister lived there with magic and what I have now comes from you.”

  I open my mouth, furious, but Freya lifts a warning hand, her eyes fixed on Anastasia. “You cost my assassin his sword. Consider it my idea of recompense.”

  “It isn’t fair,” Anastasia breathes.

  “Not particularly,” Freya says without a shred of sympathy.

  Slender fingers squeeze mine briefly and I think she’s going to let me go. I know it’s for the best, really. I didn’t give her back her magic just to see her lose it again.

  “I agree.”

  “Hey love, no. You—” Another silencing hand is lifted at me and I growl softly, but neither woman seems to notice. Anastasia faces Freya with her dimpled chin tilted in that stubborn way I adore.

  “I can live without magic, but I won’t live without him.”

  Something warm sinks deep into my bones and my heart and my soul. I knew she loved me. I mean, I knew she said the words and all, but now I feel them. I feel Anastasia choosing me and it’s the best fucking feeling in the world.

  But I won’t let her do this.