by Claire Luana
Hale found himself before Liam’s little cell, the door hanging open. He’d tried to give the man what comfort he could—bringing him extra rations, a book to read. Not that Liam had much time to do anything but bake and collapse on his bunk in an exhausted haze.
Voices sounded down the hall and Hale pushed inside the room, closing the door partway so he couldn’t be seen. Boots echoed on the floors as the men drew closer. It sounded like several. Half a dozen soldiers, maybe?
Hale recognized one of the voices and his eyes narrowed. The nasal words of Willings floated to reach his ears. “—all the guard and legionnaires should be looking out for her. And the redhaired man she was with.”
“What should we do with this one?” a man asked.
“Take him to the morgue. He’s dead,” Willings said.
Hale risked inching forward, peeking out the bars of the cell door, keeping his form in the shadow. Who was dead?
His heart sank as he saw Liam’s gaunt form hauled between two soldiers, blood trailing behind. No. Hale’s heart seized in his chest. Poor man. He’d almost made it. So what had happened to the rescuers?
A gasp of shock escaped him as he saw who walked between the next two legionnaires, their swords leveled with deadly precision. “Pike?” Hale whispered, twining his fingers through the bars, craning his neck to see as they rounded the corner towards Daemastra’s workshop.
He pressed himself back against the wall, his mind racing. Guildmaster Pike was here. Captive. What did that mean? Was Pike working with the Falconer? A thought struck him and his mouth went dry. There were only two more ingredients Daemastra needed to make his formula. Luck and time. With Pike here—if the man’s magic was what Daemastra needed—the madman would be one step closer to transforming himself and his soldiers into gods. And perhaps he’d forgo luck, if he was this close.
Hale had to know what was happening. He needed to get near that room.
He passed several of the legionnaires as they hurried from Daemastra’s workshop. He didn’t blame them. There was something about that place that made a man’s skin crawl. He’d felt it even before he’d known what it was. The ground-up bones of dozens of Gifted, kept in refrigerated jars.
Hale sidled up to the wall beside the door, listening to the voices inside. Pike. Willings. Daemastra.
“I’m so pleased you could join us Guildmaster Pike.” Daemastra was purring. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“And I hadn’t thought of you at all,” Pike countered.
A smooth chuckle from Daemastra. “I doubt that, Guildmaster. I doubt that very much. There’s so much I want to ask you. So much information you have to share that will aid the Empire. The identity of the Falconer, for instance. The location of the rest of your guild members and the missing members of the Confectioner’s Guild. Perhaps even, if I’m lucky, the location of our missing heir to the throne.”
Flame it! The man knew where Wren and Callidus and Thom were? It was worse than he thought.
“And then, an item of personal interest,” Daemastra went on. “The nature of your Gift.”
“If you think I’m going to tell you anything, you’re more deluded than you look,” Pike spat at him. “You can go straight to the Piscator’s watery hell. You and your dog here and your whole blooming empire.”
Pike’s defiance warmed Hale and a grim smile crossed his face.
“Your spirit is admirable. In fact, it’s no less than I was expecting from the notorious head of the Spicer’s Guild. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to dispense with the pleasantries. You will tell us what you know because you’ll have no choice. Willings, I believe I have a bottle of ice wine in my chambers. Would you send for a servant to fetch it?”
“Gladly,” Willings said, and Hale launched into action, sprinting down the corridor and slipping into the nearby empty kitchen. Hale watched from the dark room as Willings passed, a smile baring his crooked teeth. Ice wine.
Hale slumped against the wall, horror welling within him. Wren, Thom, Callidus. Lucas and his two remaining siblings. The last resistance in the city. If Pike knew anything about any of it, they were all doomed. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Chapter 39
Ansel pulled Wren along through the wet Maradis night. Her body was numb, her mind more so.
The Apricans hadn’t followed them across the disgusting stretch of sewer water; they had seemed fixed on getting Liam and Pike back to the palace. Liam hadn’t been dead when Wren and Ansel had turned the corner, the slimy stones blocking her final glimpse of Liam’s pale visage and Pike, his face a mask of fury.
Wren wasn’t sure whether she was praying for Liam to die a clean death or to live. She didn’t know anything anymore. Her mind was shrouded by fog, by shock, by exhaustion. She needed...she didn’t know. She had thought that getting Lucas back would bolster her courage, her resolve to do what needed to be done. But now she’d lost him. And seeing that knife thrusting into Liam’s gut...she didn’t know if she had that in her. Would she kill herself, to avoid being used by these monsters? Or would she take the coward’s approach and live—knowing that her magic was being twisted and used for evil?
They turned the corner onto the street that housed Violena’s townhouse, and Wren recoiled.
Ansel pulled her back into the shadows between two buildings, pressing her against the hard brick. Aprican soldiers milled on the steps of the townhouse, and the door was open. A carriage stood in the street before the house, another blue-clad soldier sitting at the reins.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
“I think the safehouse ain’t safe any longer,” Ansel said.
A hand fell on her shoulder and a screech escaped from her lips as she whirled into the darkness of the alley—to face the other figure there. “Shh!” the man said, clapping one hand over her mouth, resting a finger against his own lips.
Her blood thrummed through her veins as she registered who it was, relaxing slightly. Bran. She nodded and he lifted his hand.
Ansel and Bran shook hands as Wren sagged against the wall, her hand pressed to her chest.
“What’s this?” Ansel nodded back towards the scene on the townhouse steps. They were leading Killian out now, his gnarled form flanked by two huge Apricans.
“Think one of the shipments got flagged goin’ through the port. The soldiers must have followed it here. I got my last wagonload here and found this. I parked around the corner. I think they’re from customs, doing an inspection. Could be that they don’t know what they’ve really got is the Falconer. Maybe that slick bastard will be able to talk his way out of this.”
“One can hope.”
“What happened in the palace? Where’s Pike? Dash?”
A bubble of deranged laughter escaped Wren’s lips. In her shock at Liam’s bloody suicide, she’d forgotten about Dash. And poor Pike. He was probably back in the palace, being tortured for information right now. Gods, it was partly her fault. She’d told him to go back for Liam.
Ansel put his arms around her shoulders, and unconsciously, she relaxed into his warmth.
“We ran into trouble,” Ansel said. “Dash chose his side. They took Pike.”
Bran shook his head. “Damn. That’s a loss. At least the Imbrises and the others are safe, right?”
Ansel shook his head. “Pike and Dash both know our plans. We haveta assume that if Dash doesn’t spill all, they’ll get the information from Pike with infused foods. No one’s safe.”
Wren felt her resolve crumble even more beneath her. Gods. “The newspaper office,” she said, horror welling in her. Lucas, Callidus...images of Aprican guards kicking down the door to the Maradis Morning lanced through her mind. Lucas and Trick and Ella, blood seeping across the polished wood of the floor. Thom and Callidus, dragged to the palace to be used like laboratory animals. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if the gesture could keep her lungs from seizing.
“Wren,” Ansel said. “It’s all
right. Just breathe.”
She was shaking violently now. Ansel and Bran loomed over her with matching concerned expressions, and suddenly, she needed to be away. She pushed past them, farther into the dim of the alley. “A minute.” She gasped, leaning over, fighting for breath.
She had no flaming clue what to do. How to fix this. Their desperate plan was falling apart, the thin slice of hope slipping from her fingertips. As Wren grappled with her racing thoughts, struggling for breath, a memory surfaced. Sable’s words—one of the last things she’d said to Wren the night she died. I can barely see the two steps in front of me, let alone the whole path. All I can do is walk those steps, and then the next two, and the next two. And hope I end up somewhere worthwhile.
The pressure in her lungs eased. Wren could see the next step—the path they must take. After that, she had no flaming idea. She stood and turned, marching back towards Ansel and Bran. In a hushed whisper, she announced, “Bran, get us to the Maradis Morning. As fast as humanly possible.”
The printing presses for the Maradis Morning were housed in a large warehouse in the Industrial Quarter, not far from the Block, the prison Wren and Lucas had had a brief stay in. She shivered as she, Bran, and Ansel passed its high walls, trying to forget the feel of Killian pressing a hot needle under her fingernail. She couldn’t believe they were working with him now—that she was worried for his safety, wondering if the soldiers had found the chocolates they’d stashed in the basement. But everything was upside down, wasn’t it?
When they reached the warehouse building, Wren let out a shaky sigh. They’d caught a glimpse of two Cedar Guards in the distance at one of the intersections they’d passed, but the roads had been blessedly clear. Perhaps their luck was holding—for now.
Wren hurried from the carriage and pushed through the back door of the newspaper building. It creaked audibly, and she winced.
The cavernous space was filled with black beasts of printing presses, her friends around them, shirtsleeves rolled up, smears of ink on their hands and faces. Wren exhaled a deep breath in relief. They weren’t too late. The Apricans hadn’t found them here yet.
“Wren!” Callidus’s pale face popped out from behind one of the glistening machines, his hair flopping over his forehead. “What are you doing here?”
The others emerged too and gathered around them—Lucas keeping his distance, his face impassive.
A lump rose in her throat as she faced the prospect of admitting their defeat to her friends.
Ansel laid a hand on her shoulder. “They were waiting for us. We lost Liam in the fight. Pike was captured.”
Dismayed murmurs and exclamations peppered the room—disbelief warring with anger.
Olivia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Dash?” Her blue eyes were wide and pleading.
“He turned,” Wren managed, the words as hard as granite.
Olivia shook her head as if to ward against the truth, her face crumpling.
“I’m sorry,” Wren managed.
“We haveta assume Pike is compromised. He knows our plans. He knows where we all are,” Ansel said. “It ain’t safe for ya to stay here.
“But we’re not done—” Trick protested.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ansel said. “We haveta abandon this plan. For now. For all we know, Dash or Pike spilled and there are Apricans headed here right now. We need to get ya somewhere safe.”
“And where is that?” Lucas asked. “If Pike is compromised, so is Violena’s.”
Wren exchanged glances with Bran and Ansel. There was one place they had thought they might be able to lie low—if it was as they’d left it. But that was a big if.
Wren began. “We think—”
It was that moment when a door across the room flew open, kicked down by a powerful blow. A dozen Aprican legionnaires, led by Captain Ambrose, poured into the warehouse, their naked blades glinting in the lamplight.
Ansel, Bran, Lucas, and the others leapt into action, but the resistance was short-lived. Ansel and Bran dashed for the front door, their swords out, trying to clear a path for them. But a dozen soldiers materialized in the front, too, followed by the sneering face of Willings.
Wren stood in shocked stillness, her gaze locked on Willings, her blood roaring in her ears. It was over. They’d be taken to the palace—to Daemastra and the emperor—to whatever twisted experiments the men wanted to perform.
Wren looked at Lucas. Oh, gods. Lucas. They’d execute him. Helplessness flooded through her, as cold as ice water.
“Quite the morsels we’ve caught in our web, eh, Ambrose?” Willings crowed.
“The emperor will be pleased. Pleased indeed,” Ambrose agreed, swaggering forward. “Is this not one, but two...nay, three Imbrises? All that’s left of the royal line, ripe for the picking.” He lingered near Ella, grasping one of her golden curls, examining it before letting it drop.
Ella spit in his face.
Ambrose backhanded her across her cheek. Her head snapped to the side, but she didn’t cry out, didn’t even wince at the blood that appeared in the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t you flaming touch my sister,” Lucas growled.
Ambrose turned a dark smile towards Lucas. “You’re not in a position to be making demands. Now, where are the Gifted? Oh yes.” Ambrose strode up and seized Wren by the wrist, pulling her forward. Lucas and Ansel both tensed, Ansel’s hand on his sword hilt. She gave a little shake of her head. If they drew blades, it would be a blood bath. They were outnumbered practically three to one.
“Those two.” Willings pointed to Thom and Callidus, still standing behind a curtain of soldiers. Coward.
“Come, come.” Ambrose motioned them forward with cocked fingers. Thom and Callidus reluctantly joined her, Thom’s hand lingering in Trick’s grip as long as possible.
“And that one. The middle Imbris.” Willings said.
Trick reluctantly stepped forward, but Ambrose held up a hand. “Not you. Your family line takes precedence over your Gift, unfortunately for you. You stay.”
Unfortunately for him?
Ambrose motioned to his men. “Tie them up.”
Wren watched as the soldiers went to quick work, binding her friends’ hands and feet. She needed to think. She needed a plan. She needed some infused cheese, like they’d slipped her in the Block. No, infused chocolate... Wren reached quickly into her pocket and seized the little wax paper satchel of chocolates, letting it tumble down her skirt onto the floor. Perhaps it was the only help she could give them.
Just in time, for a soldier seized her hands, wrenching them behind her back and tying them tightly behind her. She didn’t even struggle. Resisting this was useless. They were out of help. Out of allies. Alone.
Wren caught Olivia’s wild gaze for a moment, and she motioned with her head to the packet on the ground.
Her friend’s blue eyes widened imperceptibly.
“It was a valiant little resistance you put up here. But the fun is over now,” Ambrose said. He waved a hand. “Burn the place to the ground.”
“No!” Wren cried, lunging forward.
Ambrose caught her with iron arms around her waist, hauling her up into the air, dragging her back. She kicked and screamed as they pulled her from the warehouse while the other soldiers went to work pouring out oil from black canisters.
Wren collapsed into the corner of the carriage they shoved her into, tears leaking down her cheeks. Thom and Callidus were shoved in next to her while Willings climbed in across from them with an Aprican guard next to him.
She wanted to scream at Willings, to rail and shout and scratch his face with her nails. But her body had gone weak, numb with the realization of what was happening. Lucas was going to die. Lucas, and Olivia, and Ansel and Trick and Ella. Four little chocolates weren’t enough to stop the might of the Aprican empire. A sob escaped from her throat.
“Don’t cry, little Wren,” Willings said gleefully.
“The Huntress take you,” Wren swore, tu
rning away. She couldn’t look at his smug face anymore.
“I don’t envy you,” Willings said. “Before long, you’ll be wishing you had let King Imbris have his way with you. A lifetime in a cell making chocolate for Imbris will seem like a dream vacation compared to what Daemastra has in store for you.”
Chapter 40
Lucas wanted to scream. He hadn’t come this far just to be outmatched by flaming Willings.
The heat from the flames was beginning to reach them, now just the warmth of a crackling campfire. But they were spreading quickly and held the promise of more—a blistering inferno that would destroy all they held dear.
“Anyone got any bright ideas?” Ansel asked. He and Bran were tied the tightest, back to back.
“I got a knife in my boot,” Bran said. “If someone can get to it.”
Ella was closest. “I can.” She rolled onto her knees and slowly scooted forward, her pale blue dress leaving a trail through the dust. She thunked onto her side next to Bran’s feet, almost teetering over before righting herself.
“My lady,” Bran said with a grin as Ella leaned back, trying to fumble her way into Bran’s boot.
“In your dreams,” she said, rolling her eyes before letting out a smile of victory. “Got it!” She awkwardly pulled a small dagger out of the boot, holding it askew in her bound hands. “Now what?”
“Now give it here,” Ansel said, sticking his hands out to the side. “I’ll cut through our ropes.”
Ella maneuvered the knife into his hands.
The flames were growing taller around the perimeter of the room and had almost reached a giant stack of paper piled next to the printing press. “Hurry up,” Lucas said. “If the fire reaches that paper, we’re done for.”
“Oh really?” Ansel snapped. “I was goin’ at a leisurely pace, but I guess now I’ll pick it up a bit. I mean, I’m supposed to go on break in a few. Hope I finish up before then.”
