by Claire Luana
“He’s so much more than a cuisinier. He is as brilliant as he is power-hungry. As he is mad. He outwitted me, and you may not see it yet, but he outwitted you. He outwitted all of us in the end.”
Lucas and Trick looked at each other in alarm as the emperor’s words sank in.
Lucas ran to the door, peering out into the hallway. His breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of two huge men headed towards them.
“Son of a spicer,” Lucas swore, slamming the door shut behind him, pulling down the crossbeam to bar the door.
He turned back to the emperor. “Does the takeover you referenced have anything to do with huge men the size of statutes? Who happen to be headed our way?”
The emperor’s wizened face was grave. “Daemastra has been experimenting for years with Gifted potions. I have no doubt the men you speak of are his doing—some perversion of magic. If they’re headed our way, I fear there’s little hope for any of us.”
Chapter 47
Olivia’s hands were slick with sweat, her hair wild and tangled. Swords clashed around her, the screams of dying men and women echoing in her ears. The smell of blood threatened to gag her. She’d never smelled so much blood. The short sword she held felt strange and heavy in her hand, but she was profoundly grateful for the comfort it brought her.
Princess Ellarose clung to her side, a dagger grasped in one palm as they backed through the hallways the way they had come in, over the bodies of fallen allies and enemies alike. There was blood on the blade from the man Ella had stabbed in the neck when he’d tried to come for her. The girl may be frightened, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Ansel’s men fought savagely, holding the front line against the Aprican brutes who stood as tall as two men. She had never seen men like that before—impossibly strong and fast, their faces shining like the sun. They hardly seemed human.
Some of the guild members were in the fray too—dark-haired spicers, brawny Guildmaster Bruxius, even Captain Griff slashed and parried with fierce skill and determination. But they were falling. Olivia watched, horrorstricken as her allies were picked off one by one. They couldn’t keep on like this. None of them would survive.
An Aprican legionnaire slashed at Guildmaster Chandler, whose white hair was flying wildly with every swing of his sword. Another man approached from behind and Olivia heard herself scream his name, not sure if it would make a difference over the cacophony of ringing metal.
But Chandler dropped down just in time and the legionnaire’s blade missed him.
Then she heard the scream of her name and Olivia’s attention was yanked back to herself. She barely had time to register the tall brute in a sky-blue uniform coming for her before he fell, impaled on Lennon’s sword.
Her mouth went dry as her stomach heaved within her. That was close.
A shrill whistle sounded in the distance and one of Ansel’s men in the melee gave an answering whistle.
“What is that?” Ella asked, but it became clear when one of the mercenaries shouted, “Retreat!”
But they had been trying to retreat, when it was clear they wouldn’t be able to make it to Wren and Thom and Callidus. It was damn near impossible with the press of the monstrous men upon them, their huge swords and axes mowing down mercenaries and guild members with each wicked strike.
“Fall back!” Griff shouted, and the momentum changed as guild members scrambled back towards the exit. Olivia was towed along in a tide of bodies and frantic faces as they began to retreat in earnest.
When they rounded the next corner, the open front doors of the palace gaping wide in the distance, the sight that greeted them was not one of freedom. It was a force of men in Aprican sky-blue uniforms jogging through the doors straight towards them.
“Oh gods.” Marina moaned at the sight.
“In here!” Ella cried and yanked Olivia towards a side door. Olivia grasped out and her hand connected with Marina’s wrist, pulling the woman with her. And then they were all piling inside the room—Griff and Beckett and Guildmaster McArt and Chandler and sailors she didn’t recognize and even a few of Ansel’s men.
Ella threw the lock as a force like a battering ram slammed against the door. The lock held.
“Lennon?” Olivia spun around and sagged in relief as she saw him, blood dripping from a shallow cut across his chest.
“Bar the door!” Griff cried and they scattered, dragging ornate furniture from the corners of the sitting room. Four men, including Guildmaster Bruxius, heaved a huge carved wooden bookshelf in front of the door, and then they piled more furniture before it—wedging chairs and a desk and velvet divan.
When every piece of furniture in the room was piled in a heap before the door, Olivia and the others stepped back into a semi-circle, subconsciously pulling themselves away from the door. From the pounding that shuddered against it.
Olivia surveyed those around her, taking in each heaving chest, each sweaty and bloodied face. She tried to memorize each one, to remember what was good and brave about each of these people. But it was impossible to focus with the attackers pounding on the door like a heartbeat, making her jump with every deafening crash.
Olivia felt fingers twine through hers and looked down to find they belonged to Marina. The confectioner stood with her shoulders squared, her head high. Olivia knew what that stance meant. For Olivia was certain the thought running through her head played in Marina’s mind as well. In the mind of every person in this room.
That door wouldn’t hold for long.
Wren’s skin crawled as she stumbled back into the workshop, a sword point pricking at her back.
“Look who we found in the hallway, trying to flee,” Willings said with a sneer.
Daemastra clucked his tongue. “Hale, Hale. A noble sacrifice, to give your own life to try to help get your friend out alive. A misguided one, however.”
“I won’t help you anymore,” Hale said. “I don’t care what you do to me. But I won’t help you kill her. Or anyone else.”
Daemastra nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “I understand. You’ve had a resurgence of conscience. Luckily, I don’t require your assistance anymore. I would have these soldiers dispose of you, but I think the poison will do that just fine.”
Hale growled, but a soldier laid his naked sword on the side of Hale’s neck and Hale stilled, growing quiet as the grave.
Daemastra walked to the icebox and removed a jar of clear fluid. He brought it to the counter and set it next to the jar of white powder. The one labelled Pike.
“You’re here to witness a most auspicious day, young confectioners,” Daemastra said. “The culmination of two decades of research.”
“You mean two decades of exploitation and slaughter,” Wren said.
“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” Daemastra said. “That expression always made perfect sense to me as a cuisinier.”
He unscrewed the jars and took a tablespoon of powder from the one, stirring it into the other.
Wren looked at Hale, her eyes wild. They had to stop him somehow! If Daemastra took that powder...he’d be as powerful as a god. And Willings would be as well. She shuddered at the thought. No one would be able to challenge them. Wren could dart forward...smash the jar of formula onto the ground. Daemastra might be able to make more...but he wouldn’t be able to use it now. She might be able to buy Lucas enough time to kill the emperor. Then, even if they had to flee...perhaps... Her thoughts were jumbled. Every avenue they ran down, obstacles as big as boulders seemed set in their path. This had been their last play. And with Ansel and his men retreating, getting out alive seemed impossible enough.
Hale met her gaze sideways and gave his head a minuscule shake. He was saying to wait. To hold. Not to go for the jar.
Her brow furrowed. Why? Her resolve faltered. What if Hale coming to find her had been a plot? What if he was working for Daemastra? If he played upon her sympathies to get her back here? He had almost killed her
once. She had watched him behead King Imbris, had watched him kill Virgil in cold blood. She knew what he was capable of...
But no. She had refused to go with Ansel because some part of her, deep within, had wanted to believe that this was her Hale. The Hale who’d called her chickadee and slung an easy arm over her shoulder and spun her around with abandon under the flashing lights of a dance hall. Who had loved Sable and their Guild as much as she did. More.
Wren straightened, her decision made. For better or worse, she had staked her life on this friendship. On trusting another person. And if that was the decision that took her to her grave, she could live with it. Better to die with friends than live always alone.
Hale reached out a hand and twined his fingers through hers, squeezing. Wren bit back a sob at the comfort of the gesture. Warm and real and Hale. Though she had lost one brother, life had brought her another. And she wasn’t about to lose him now.
Daemastra had mixed the final ingredient in his formula and had retrieved an eyedropper full of the clear liquid. The formula that would make him near invincible. The formula concocted from the broken lives and broken bodies of so many Gifted vintners and cuisiniers and confectioners. Faces and stories she would never know. She honored them anyway—said a silent apology.
Daemastra tilted his head back and emptied the eyedropper full of liquid into his mouth.
The man passed the jar and eyedropper to Willings next, who took his dose eagerly. She saw all of this out of the corner of her eye, but her focus was fixed with growing horror on Daemastra himself. The man hunched over, holding his stomach, steadying himself with one veiny hand on the countertop. A laugh escaped him, rattling Wren’s bones. Then he straightened, and she saw that he had already begun to change. His shirt ripped as he grew taller. Broader. His features morphed to become more youthful, his hair darkening into a rich auburn, growing thicker. The strange tightness of his skin left him as it grew more supple and youthful. When the transformation was complete, an entirely different man stood before her. He was devastatingly handsome and fit, glowing with vitality and health. The man looked every inch a ruler—a warrior—a king—from the storybooks. No hint of Daemastra remained, except the eyes. Sharp and dark, glittering with triumph.
By the counter, Willings was clutching a silver tray, examining his reflection. His crooked teeth and pockmarked skin were gone—now he rivaled Hale’s good looks, his hair as red as Ansel’s.
Wren thought of the thin form of the emperor on the balcony during the coronation, his hand clutching the railing. It all became horribly clear. This was their new ruler. And his trusted right hand. There had been no need for them to overthrow the emperor, for Lucas to defeat or kill him. Because they were just doing this man a favor. Daemastra was their new emperor.
Chapter 48
When the sound of the battering ram against the door had ceased, a tiny glimmer of hope had bloomed in Olivia’s chest. Were the attackers leaving? Retreating?
Thunk.
A different sound reached her ears—not the shuddering of a body against the door, but something more concentrated.
Olivia looked at Lennon and he shrugged, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a blood-streaked hand.
Thunk.
What was that sound?
The glinting blade of an axe appeared through the wood of the bookshelf, answering the question in each of their minds. The monstrous men outside were chopping down the door.
“Anyone have a bow and arrows?” Griff asked, looking around the room
They all shook their heads.
“Flaming too bad,” Griff said, her shoulders deflating. Though the captain looked exhausted, she still held herself at the ready for whatever might come through that door.
Olivia tried to channel that resolute confidence, but terror’s icy fingers pulled at her thoughts with a tenacious grip. Tears slid down her cheeks. In a few minutes she would be gone. Impaled on a sword. She wondered if it would hurt. Yes, it probably would. Badly.
The axe blade had formed a gaping hole now, and the face of a preternaturally handsome Aprican was visible on the other side, his straight, white teeth bared in challenge.
“Really wish I had a bow right now,” Griff muttered.
Olivia backed up as the hole grew larger and splinters of wood flew at them with every strike of the wicked axe.
Marina’s fingers gripped Olivia’s painfully, but Olivia relished the feeling even as she clutched the slick short sword in her other hand. At least she wouldn’t die alone. That was better than some people got.
The axe strikes stopped, the room falling strangely quiet but for the ragged breathing of the guild members.
And then the door exploded in towards them in a shower of wood and furniture.
Olivia cried out as a chair smashed into her legs, sending her sprawling onto her side. The sword clattered to the ground as it slipped from her hand.
A man was silhouetted in the doorway, dwarfing it with his huge bulk. He stepped inside, sword in one hand, axe in the other.
Olivia heard a whimper escape her lips.
The man strode forward towards Lennon, who held his sword before him in shaking hands.
Olivia squeezed her eyes closed. She couldn’t watch as her friend died.
The ground shook with a thud and Olivia’s eyes flew open. She struggled to comprehend what she saw. The huge brute of an Aprican soldier had tumbled forward, bowled into by a man in plain clothes. A bearded man—Dash.
“By the Beekeeper,” Olivia breathed as Aprican soldiers flooded the room, falling into position behind Dash. But they weren’t attacking the guild members or Ansel’s mercenaries or Griff’s sailors. They were attacking the huge soldier. Dash and the soldiers...were on their side!
Olivia scrambled back as the legionnaires swarmed the god-like soldier like ants at a picnic. Blood appeared from a dozen cuts as the soldier roared, moving with impossible speed, trying to take down his attackers. But they were too many.
He fell with a thunderous crash, and it was Dash himself who made the killing blow, surging forward and sliding his blade through the man’s throat all the way to the hilt.
Dash pulled back as the soldier fell. He whirled about, his green eyes wild, his handsome face blood-speckled. “Olivia?” he called. “Has anyone seen Olivia?”
Olivia pushed to her feet, her heart spasming back to life within her. “Here I am,” she said, her voice blessedly sure.
Dash’s head whipped her way and a hand flew to his heart as he breathed out. “I thought...I thought I was too late.”
She shook her head and then he was before her, his arms wrapping around her and lifting her off her feet, spinning her around with a whoop.
A disbelieving laugh escaped from her as she buried her face in his neck, reveling in the very real, very welcome presence of Dash.
Shouts sounded outside the door, and the muffled clash of metal sounded.
“What is that?” Trick asked, his eyes wild.
“If I knew, I would tell you,” Lucas said, running a shaky hand through his hair. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Bran and his men had abandoned them, they were about to be skewered by two giants, and the emperor wasn’t even the real threat. His spirits sank. It was over. They were done.
He shook his head at Trick. “It’s over. Even with the emperor...there’s no way we can beat Daemastra. All along, we were targeting the wrong man.”
“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourselves,” the emperor said. “He outwitted me, and I had many more resources than you.”
“What does he want?” Trick asked. “Can we bargain with him?”
The sounds of fighting were intensifying outside the door. Lucas strayed towards the door, straining his ears as the emperor answered. “He wants ultimate power. To be a god. To be invincible—and immortal.”
“Is that all?” Trick snorted.
“I’m afraid there’s no reasoning with him,” the emperor finished.
The room shook as a crash sounded outside.
Trick crept up to the other side of the door, and they both placed their ears against the walls, listening. Faint voices were audible, but not the words.
The door handle jiggled and Trick met Lucas’s gray eyes, his own wild. His breath caught, his inhale sharp. Who was trying to get in?
They both backed away, Trick pulling his bloodied sword from its sheath.
“I love you, little brother,” Lucas said, widening his stance, bracing himself for what would come through that door.
“You too. I hope...Ella made it.”
Lucas nodded. “She’s a survivor. She’ll be all right.”
Lucas braced himself when a knock sounded on the door. Three polite raps. He straightened, letting his sword droop.
“Uh, who is it?” Lucas called.
“Thom!” a muffled voice said. Trick’s eyes went wide, and his sword clanged to the floor as he reached for the crossbar to throw it back.
“Wait!’ Lucas cried. “It could be a trap—”
But it was too late. Trick was pulling the door open.
Thom ran into the room, barreling into Trick with the force of a hurricane. They clung to each other, tears and muffled words mingled as they rocked back and forth.
Callidus walked in next, his pale face twisted in distaste as he wiped a knife blade on the sleeve of his black jacket.
Lucas shook his head in disbelief. “You—you were not who I expected.”
Callidus sniffed, straightening his waistcoat. “Yes, well… I’m frequently underestimated.”
Hale’s fingers tightened painfully around Wren’s as they beheld the monsters that the formula had wrought. Wren didn’t care; the pain was the only thing keeping her grounded, keeping her fear from bearing her away on its rising tide.
“Willings, take these two back to the holding cell. We’ll deal with them when the rest of the palace is secure.”
“And you?” Willings asked.
