Battles of Salt and Sighs (Rise of the Death Fae Book 1)

by Val Saintcrowe

  ONIVIA’S SKIRTS WERE heavy with snow, and she didn’t have proper boots for moving through it.

  Larent had offered to continue to carry her, as he had when she’d been pretending to be a dead body wrapped in blankets, and she had insisted she would be fine walking, but she almost wished she had taken him up on it.

  The lights of the human encampment were in view now. She could see them.

  Larent had stopped walking. “Well, this is as far as I go, domina.”

  She licked her lips. “I am going to try to get him to go to the capital.”

  “I assumed you would,” he said.

  “Even if I do lie about your whereabouts,” she said.

  “You can try to convince him of that, but I don’t think he’ll believe it,” said Larent.

  She considered this. If Albus thought she was lying to manipulate him, he likely wouldn’t be pleased. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise. She wasn’t sure what she would do.

  I’ll have to see how it plays out.

  She’d do whatever she could to get him to attack the Night King and free her sister. She needed his army, and if they had to stay here and put Larent’s army down first, so be it. She didn’t particularly want Larent to die, but if it was necessary to save her sister…

  She swallowed. “You… it was pretend, centurion, all of it, everything I did with you, but I… I would like you to be careful, if you don’t mind. Try to take care of yourself.”

  He let out a long, noisy breath. “You’ve been much better to me than I deserve, you know?”

  “Yes, I do know that.”

  “I…” His face twisted.

  “Don’t apologize again,” she said. “What do you want me to do with all those apologies?”

  “All right,” he said. “No apologies.” His feet jerked through the snow, and he seized her and tugged her against him. “Tell me not to touch you.”

  “You never listen to anything I say,” she said.

  “I will this time.”

  She pressed her body into his hulking warmth. She reached up and traced his bottom lip with her forefinger. “You’re my enemy, centurion.”

  “Tell me,” he ordered, his voice gravelly.

  She kissed him instead.

  He claimed her mouth, parting her lips, and their tongues tangled.

  They kissed for far longer than made any sense.

  Then he just let go of her without another word and took off through the snow.

  She watched him disappear into the darkness before she started for the lights of the encampment.

  There were men prowling the perimeter and one of them found her. He took her roughly by the arm and demanded to know what she was doing.

  “Please, I need to see Legatus Naxus,” she said. “He knows me. Tell him it’s Cyria Onivia.” She gave her maiden prima name, because it was what he would know, and because she had barely been Prantia. Maybe she still was technically that, Prantius’s widow, but that hardly felt real, that identity.

  Even so, she supposed that Larent had made her feel quite used to being called domina.

  “If you’re a woman who knows the legatus, what are you doing out here?” said the man.

  “Please, just tell him.”

  So, the man dragged her through the encampment, through rows of tents with smoke traveling from metal chimneys poking through their tops, to a very large tent.

  “Legatus, permission to enter?” he called.

  There was nothing from within, and so the man repeated the request.

  “Who the fuck is waking me up in the middle of the night?” came the sleep-ravaged voice of Albus. She was stunned at how easily she recognized it. Her stomach turned over.

  The flap of the tent opened and Albus peered out, bearded, ragged, wrapped in a quilt.

  “My apologies, legatus, but this woman—”

  “Nivvie,” breathed Albus, gaping at her.

  “Albus,” she said. “I’m sorry to come to you this way, but I need your help, and I know you might be—”

  He reached out and pulled her into the tent, cupping her face in his hands. “Nivvie, Fortune’s favor, what has happened to you?”

  MAGDALIA RESTED HER head against Duranth’s chest. They were up on some rock outcropping, and she didn’t quite know how they’d ended up here, but it was good here, because they had a better view here.

  Duranth had a his mouth to her neck, kissing her at the place where her skin curved, making her gasp. He had his good hand under her skirts. He’d easily found the core of her pleasure there, and she knew it was because he could feel her reaction through the magic. They were bonded together, and their magic was strong. He knew exactly where to touch her, how to touch her, and it was good.

  Her pleasure—their pleasure—made the magic even stronger.

  The magic furled out, like flags shook out from a great height, and every one of the dead things it touched stood up.

  Duranth panted, rubbing her between her thighs.

  She undulated against his fingers, groaning at each rush of hot liquid pleasure that worked its way through her.

  And the dead marched.

  She vaguely remembered that she hadn’t wanted to do this, that it was a thing she had thought was repulsive.

  But she couldn’t remember why.

  For one thing, whatever Duranth’s hand was doing between her thighs felt like paradise on earth, and it also made their magic stronger. The strong magic made everything feel better as well. The pleasure and the magic fed each other, a perfect circle, just like that time they’d touched over Csaer for the first time.

  The magic felt good, and it was good.

  Below them, the dead men picked up the weapons they’d abandoned in death. They marched forward, and as the magic grew, so did the surety of their movements. They were quicker than when they’d first stood up. They were better able to wield their weapons.

  From this vantage point, Magdalia and Duranth could watch their army wending its way down the mountain.

  Below, there was a human encampment.

  The army of the dead advanced.

  The humans had seen them, and they’d already started opening fire on approaching masses. But of course, it didn’t matter, because the dead men did not stop when the bullets burst through their skin. If the cannons blew off their legs, they crawled with their hands. They were inexorable and fierce, and they never stopped.

  As her pleasure crested, the first of the dead men reached the encampment.

  The slaughter began.

  And she convulsed in Duranth’s arms, crying out her climax at the night sky.

  This was power.

  This was pleasure.

  This was intoxicating.

  * * *

  Thanks so much for reading! Rise of the Death Fae is planned to be a four-book series.

  Find information about book two here.

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