She hadn’t been there to fight amongst her warriors, or defend the defenseless. She hadn’t been there to offer guidance, or lead those who followed her.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Malachi turned her to face him.
“Des, look at me.”
She raised her gaze to meet his and felt her chin begin to tremble. “Malachi ... what have I done?”
He shook his head, tightening his hold on her shoulders. “Do not blame yourself for the actions of others. You cannot control the evil that exists in this world, nor can you avoid it when it strikes.”
“But I can fight!” she cried, shrugging out of his hold. “I can protect the people who are looking to me to be their queen!”
“You have done that,” he argued, keeping his voice low, even though by now several people had heard them.
She was making a scene, but couldn’t seem to control the emotions threatening to burst through her skin and tear her to pieces.
“Not well enough,” she whispered. “I should have been here.”
“But they might still have—”
“I should have been here!” she bellowed.
Malachi fell silent, snapping his mouth shut as if he’d been about to speak but thought better of it. Fighting to control her breathing, Desdemona closed her eyes and attempted to swallow past the bile burning in her throat.
The sound of someone sobbing nearby stole her attention, and she turned toward it, seeking out the source. The cries of a heart being broken, she realized. Brushing past Mindirra, she found the form of a woman crouching near one of the bodies.
As she drew closer, her throat seized at the sight of a slight body held in the arms of a woman.
A child. She wept over the body of her slain child.
Dropping to her knees beside the female, Desdemona recognized the Fox Shifter and choked back a sob. It was Merta, Roimas’ mate. The mate of the man who had welcomed her to Snowbank and thanked her for liberating them. In her arms laid Henfas, dried blood staining his temple and coating his hair. His face was whiter than the snow, his lips startlingly blue in contrast.
“My son,” Merta wept, rocking back and forth as she clung to the boy, clutching him tight against her chest. “My son ... my son.”
Desdemona reached out, placing a trembling hand on the boy’s head. Startled, as if she hadn’t noticed Desdemona approach, Merta glanced up at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. She sobbed, glancing from Desdemona, back down to the child.
“Roimas?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice level.
Merta met her gaze again and shook her head, letting out another sob. “He was one of the first cut down. Ran out to meet them along with several others, the foolish man. Said he was tired of cowering and hiding, and that it was time to fight. If you could do it, so could he.”
No. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. She was supposed to protect them.
Another tear splashed her face as she reached her free hand up to touch Merta’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking as a sob tried to force its way up into her throat. “I am so very sorry.”
Merta nodded, but fell silent, saying nothing else as she went on holding and rocking her son.
Rising to her feet, Desdemona removed her cloak, gently laying it over Merta’s shoulders. She didn’t want to attempt tearing the woman away from her son’s body.
Turning away, she found Mindirra and Malachi standing there, watching her expectantly. They were waiting for her to act ... to tell them what to do. But she couldn’t think beyond the fury that had begun taking over the grief. She latched onto it and allowed it to grow, finding it far preferable to the pain of sadness. The rage fed the fire within her, until she was bursting into flames, surrendering to the one urge she could rely on to make this right. The urge to hunt, destroy, and kill.
“Your Majesty, where are you going?” Mindirra called out, cupping her hands to be heard as Desdemona spread her wings and began to ascend.
Her only reply was a screech, which echoed through the morning as she spewed fire. She flew west; in the direction the attackers had retreated.
Perhaps they would understand and follow to aid her. But, Desdemona did not need them to. She had enough rage and fire for every single minion of Queen Eranna, with plenty to spare for the woman whose evil could not continue to go unchecked.
MALACHI TRUDGED UP the winding staircase of the castle, exhaustion sapping the strength from his very bones. The sun had just begun to rise, but he hadn’t slept since the night before. Those blissful hours spent with Desdemona in his cabin now seemed so distant that he was hard-pressed to remember that it had only been twenty-four hours.
After returning to Snowbank to find that Eranna’s underlings had retaliated, Desdemona had flown off in the direction of Moville, a village lying to the south of Snowbank. Watching her fly away, Malachi had known exactly what she intended once she arrived there.
“She wants us to follow,” he had said, turning to Mindirra and the other royal bodyguards.
In truth, he had no idea what Desdemona wanted, but he would be damned if he allowed her to go running off after the enemy alone. She might be one of the most powerful beings in existence, but she was not invincible. She’d been killed twice already, and Malachi would not risk losing her only to find she might not rise again.
And so, he and Mindirra had gathered Desdemona’s forces, leaving twenty of the Warrior Fae behind to guard Snowbank. They’d traveled overland as fast as their legs would carry them, using the bright splash of Desdemona’s wings against the sky as a beacon.
They’d overtaken Eranna’s soldiers on the outskirts of Moville, and eradicated them. Desdemona had torched at least half of them by the time they arrived, while Malachi and Eli led the others in slaughtering the rest.
From there, they progressed into the village, where Desdemona repeated her performance from Snowbank—driving away the guards keeping the town under siege, and bringing the people out of imprisonment. However, this time she neglected to remain for the celebration.
Taking to the sky once more, she continued east toward the village of Baelmir. Leaving yet another force of Warrior Fae behind to protect Moville, they followed.
They continued that way for what remained of the day, travelling from village to village, and leaving a trail of fire, ash, and blood in their wake. Desdemona was tireless, refusing to take a rest, food, or drink, until she had visited each of Mollac’s towns herself and ensured that Eranna’s forces had been driven out.
When they returned to Semran Hall, only Desdemona, Malachi, Eli, Mindirra, and the queen’s royal bodyguard remained in their party. The Warrior Fae had been broken into units and left behind to oversee the rebuilding effort of each village. They would offer protection and send word if a threat too large for them to handle arose.
Only when the last village had been secured did Desdemona seem satisfied. Even still, she remained tense and silent the entire journey back to Semran Hall. The castle’s new kitchen staff had a meal prepared for them upon their return, so they had all sat at the new rough, wooden tables that had been erected in the great hall to eat. During the meal, Desdemona merely picked at her food, pushing the offerings on her plate back and forth with her fork. Despite his many attempts to gain her attention, she ignored him—avoiding looking in his direction or speaking directly to him.
He wanted to attribute this to just another shift in her mood. Desdemona had always run hot and cold, her disposition fluctuating on a whim. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel as if something profound had happened to her in Snowbank ... something that would change things between them forever.
Arriving in the corridor housing her personal chambers, he found two of her royal bodyguards standing watch outside her door. He frowned, wondering when she had decided to post two guards outside her room rather than one.
“I’m sorry,” said one of the guards, stepping forward to block him from approaching Desdemona’s
door. “The queen has asked not to be disturbed.”
Surely the guard didn’t know who he was to the queen. “If you will inform her that Malachi wishes to see her, I’m certain she’ll let me in.”
Refusing to step aside, the guard inclined his head and pierced him with a passive stare. “Her majesty was quite clear in her instructions. We were commanded to bar anyone from entering the room ... particularly you.”
Malachi flinched as if someone had slapped him.
She doesn’t want to see me?
Then, it hit him like a fist to the gut. She blamed him for had happened in Snowbank. People had died, and she hadn’t been there to stop it, because she’d been with him.
“No,” he murmured, taking a step toward the guard.
The second sentry made a move toward him, placing a hand on the sword sheathed at his hip. Malachi’s blood began to heat, his muscles tingling with the urge to shift into his animal form and tear them both limb from limb.
“No!” he repeated, louder this time, as he rushed forward in an attempt to get past them.
Both guards converged on him at once, each grasping one of his arms and attempting to drag him away from the door. Planting his feet, Malachi fought against them, standing his ground.
Grunting and cursing, they found their strength could be no match for his—fueled by the beast that lived inside of him, as well as his anger.
“Des!” he called out, his voice booming down the darkened corridor. “Des, I know you’re in there ... I know you can hear me!”
One of the guards slammed a fist into his jaw, throwing him off balance and into the wall. The other pinned one of his arms behind his back and attempted to hold him against the cold stones. The clank of chains sounded behind him, and he realized they meant to shackle him and drag him away.
“I’m not going to stop!” he bellowed, throwing his elbow back into the man pinning him to the wall. The sound of bone crunching mingled with the guard’s cry of pain as he fell back, releasing him. “I’m going to keep coming back to this door until you let me in! And if you refuse, I will simply climb the wall to your balcony. You will not turn me away. Let me in, Des!”
The first guard approached with the shackles, but hesitated when he caught sight of his companion, clutching his bleeding face and glaring daggers at Malachi.
The door swung open and Desdemona appeared, wearing a black robe, her long, dark hair hanging down her back in a single braid.
“What is going on out here?” she demanded, sweeping out into the corridor and leveling a glare at each of them.
“I informed him that you wished to be left one, but he would not heed me,” the guard holding the chains replied.
“So, you tried to beat him into submission?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” the second guard said, pointing at his bloody face. “We weren’t exactly the ones doing the beating.”
Scowling at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “There was no need for violence.”
“They attempted to manhandle me first,” he replied, returning her stare without flinching. He was not going to let her shut him out without an explanation. “I won’t leave until you talk to me.”
Desdemona was silent for a long moment, during which she seemed to try to decide whether she could force him to leave. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow at her, making it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Finally, she stood away from her door with a sigh, sweeping one arm toward the opening. “Fine. Just for a moment.”
Casting the guards a smug look, he brushed past them and made his way to the door, ducking swiftly inside before she could change her mind.
“Go clean yourself up,” she said to the injured guard. “Find someone to relieve you.”
“Yes, my queen,” he replied.
Stepping into the room, she closed the door and stood facing it, keeping her back to him. He studied her, frowning at her rigid posture and the determined angle of her head.
What could she be thinking, trying to shut him out? She should have known that his instincts would never allow him to be apart from her. Between them, the bond of a Shifter male and his mate had begun to form—Malachi could feel it with every beat of his heart. Perhaps she felt it, too, and it had begun to frighten her. But, he would never know that if she insisted on ignoring him.
“Des, what’s the matter?” he asked, crossing the room toward her. “Whatever it is, I wish you’d let me help you—”
She whirled on him just before he could reach out to grasp her shoulders. Eyes wide, she backed away from him and held her hands up as if to ward him off. She shook her head at him and clenched her jaw.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Lowering his hands back down to his sides, he clenched them into fists. They trembled with the force of the panic surging through his veins. He could not lose her ... not when he’d finally won her. Or had he? Perhaps for her to know that he loved her wasn’t enough.
“Talk to me,” he urged. “If this has something to do with what happened at Snowbank, then we can get through it together. I want to be here for you, Des.”
“I can’t allow that,” she replied, her voice clipped and strained.
He could hear the emotion causing the slightest quiver in her tone. She might present this cold façade to him, but he knew well the storm of emotions she kept bottled up inside. As a Phoenix, she felt things in a way no one else did.
“Why not?” he prodded.
“Because I am a queen!” she bellowed, hands balling up at her sides, cheeks flushing red. “I do not have the luxury of running off with my lover, and shirking my responsibilities to my people!”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m some sort of concubine,” he growled, a tightness in his chest stealing his breath away. He felt as if he were drowning, and the only person who could save him had stood back and decided to let him die. “And you have not neglected your people. You have done more for them these past few days than your mother has in over a century of ruling.”
“It isn’t enough,” she argued. “Not when people are dying because of my negligence.”
“You cannot blame yourself for what happened,” he countered. “Roimas and Henfas could have died before you decided to take power. They could have gotten ill and died tomorrow. We do not choose our fate, Des. The only thing certain in life is death, with only the time and place left a mystery.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, she leaned against the door and closed her eyes. “Like you, I have the instincts of my animal counterpart. I can feel things before they happen. I can sense them. That is, unless I’m not paying attention. Don’t you see? I didn’t sense what was coming because I was ...”
He lowered his gaze to the floor. “Because you were with me.”
“Because I was distracted by you,” she supplied.
Nodding, he cleared his throat. “So ... you blame me.”
He hardly heard her move before she was on him, bringing her hands up to cup his face. With a sigh, he sank into her touch, resting in the warm chalice of her palms.
“Malachi, no,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault ... it’s mine. You are so wonderful and good, and ... I’m afraid I lose myself when I am with you.”
The urge to return her touch seized him, yet he could not move, too afraid that it would frighten her away.
“As I do when I’m with you,” he whispered.
She gave him a sad smile and released him, taking a step away from him, then another. “I now understand why Queen Adrah has chosen to remain alone for so long. A queen’s first duty should be to her people, and love is a distraction.”
“Love is a gift,” he argued, forgetting about not wanting to scare her and reaching out to grasp her shoulders. “It is the thing that makes us want to fight against evil ... because we know that in love there exists everything pure, good, and true in the world.”
“Mala
chi, please,” she croaked, blinking back tears. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Shrugging out of his hold, Desdemona moved past him and swept toward the table where she took her meals. His mouth fell open, shock making him incapable of speech for a long moment.
“You’re ending this,” he managed, finding his voice again. “You’re pushing me away.”
“I’m pulling myself away,” she corrected. “It isn’t fair to the people of Mollac for their queen to become absorbed with pursuing her own happiness at their expense. It is the mistake my mother made when she chose the quest for everlasting beauty and youth. Look what it did to her.”
“You are not your mother,” he insisted. “You are far stronger than she could ever be.”
Turning back to face him, she nodded. “Yes. I am strong enough to know that I must put Mollac first. And that is precisely what I will do.”
His head reeling, Malachi could hardly gather his bearings. Just one day earlier, he would have laughed if someone warned him that Desdemona would shun him. It would have seemed like the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, when he knew how long she had loved him. Now, she was slipping through his fingers like water, and he had no notion of how to stop it from happening.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this. I need you, Des. I love you.”
Swiping at the tears streaming from her eyes, she sniffled. “I must.”
Beginning to pace, he ran a hand through his hair, no doubt mussing it even more than usual. “Will you send me away, then? Or am I to be tormented by having to endure your presence day after day?”
She shifted her gaze away from him and stared at the fire roaring in the hearth. “If remaining at Semran Hall is too hard for you, perhaps it is best if you leave.”
He clenched his teeth and shook his head. “I pledged an oath to you and to Mollac. I will not leave, or allow you to simply throw me away.”
Flight of the Phoenix Page 14
