The Confectioner Chronicles Box Set

by Claire Luana

  “Me too,” she said, her toes dangling in the air.

  And in that moment, the madness around them slowed, pausing for an inhale of breath, allowing him to revel in the feel of having his friend back again. Because for all the heartbreak Sable’s death had caused, he hadn’t recognized that another part of him had been missing. This part right here.

  He set her down, finally breaking off their embrace. “Where to?” he asked.

  “We need to help Lucas,” she said. “Ansel is withdrawing his men. They’ll be undefended.”

  “Ansel...” Hale nodded in the direction the redhaired warrior had gone. Thom and Callidus were reemerging around the corner, arguing in hushed voices.

  Wren nodded. “Please. I know we should go for Daemastra, but Lucas could be undefended.”

  “Lead the way,” Hale said.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” a voice sneered behind them. Hale swore. Willings and two Golden Guard blocked their path, swords drawn.

  Lucas ran through the hallways of the palace towards his father’s old room. He didn’t know what he would find there, but he knew what was on their heels. Supernatural men who fought like the hounds of the Huntress herself. And a whole host of regular ones. Trick, Bran, and a few of Bran’s men followed close on his heels as he skidded around a corner. He didn’t know where the rest of them were, where Ansel and Ella and the others had gone. All their careful planning had descended into chaos the moment the huge warriors had appeared.

  They were close to his father’s old chamber. In the back of his mind, Lucas noticed the familiar hallways, saw the faded squares where portraits of his family had been taken down by the invaders, where a statute beloved by his mother had been replaced. But none of that mattered—he needed to focus on the task at hand.

  There were only two doors between him and the Aprican Emperor. Two doors between him and Alesia’s future.

  A sharp whistle sounded in the distance, and beside Lucas, Bran looked up sharply. “What is that?” Lucas panted.

  “Retreat,” Bran said apologetically.

  “Retreat?” Lucas exploded. “We’re almost there!”

  “I take my orders from Ansel,” Bran said. “We all do.”

  “The hell with Ansel,” Lucas said. “We’re here, Bran. You’re here with us. I respect you, man. You helped us start this. Help us finish it.”

  Bran’s eyes flicked from the door in front of them to the hallway from which they had come.

  “You’ll have to fight your way back through those monsters,” Lucas said, trying to summon the man’s sense of self-preservation. There were likely several guards in the emperor’s antechamber, and then the emperor himself. Lucas didn’t know if he and Trick could take them. And even if they got in, even if they...finished the emperor...they still needed to get out of here alive. And if Ansel’s men were retreating...

  “Please,” Lucas said, his voice low. “We’re not soldiers. Don’t leave us here alone.”

  “Come with us now and we’ll cover your retreat,” Bran said. “I follow orders. But I’ll get you all out of here.”

  Lucas bit his lip, looking from Bran to his brother, a gash over one eye, an Aprican sword drooping in his hand.

  Another whistle sounded.

  “Retreat!” Bran called in a booming voice, and his men turned on a dime, streaming past them back towards the hallway they had just fought and died to pass through.

  “You coming?” Bran asked as the last man jogged past.

  He and Trick looked at each other. “If we don’t finish it now,” Trick said, “we’ll never be safe. We’ll never have a life.”

  Lucas nodded. “We’re staying.” He straightened.

  Bran nodded. “God speed,” he said before turning, his bulk moving rapidly down the hallway.

  Lucas turned back to the door, suddenly feeling unsure. Exposed. He hadn’t wanted this. Had done everything to run from this all his life. Yet still here he found himself. Blood on his hands, about to murder another ruler. In the world of court politics, it was kill or be killed.

  Trick seemed to sense his thoughts. “If we do this—maybe we can make a better world. A better way.”

  “Or die trying,” Lucas said.

  “Then we’ll see Mother and Virgil again soon,” Trick said.

  Lucas blew out a breath and with a prayer to the Sower, lifted up a booted foot and crashed it against the door, kicking it open, breaking the hinges. With a cry, they poured through the shattered frame into the king’s antechamber. His father’s old rooms. Lucas stumbled, coming up short at the sight that greeted him.

  The sitting room looked much like Lucas remembered it from his youth. He hadn’t been here in perhaps five years, since he had moved out of the palace. The emperor was sitting in a chair by the fire, a book in his hand. At their entrance, he picked up a bookmark and carefully marked his page, setting the book down on the table.

  “Young Imbris, if I’m not mistaken,” he said with a grandfatherly air about him. Lucas’s sword tip drooped slightly. “I’m sorry for all this business.”

  “You’re...sorry?” Lucas said. “For murdering my family and seizing our country?”

  The emperor offered an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid to report that we’ve both been playing parts in a drama that was set in motion long ago. My role, as I suspect you will realize very soon, was a bit part. Perhaps yours as well.”

  “What are you talking about?” Trick asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Kill me, capture me,” said the emperor. “I am at your mercy.”

  “But you’re the ruler of the Aprican empire,” Lucas protested. This was not going at all how he expected.

  “Not for long, Mr. Imbris. Not for long. I suspect he’s using your attack as the perfect cover for his takeover. I suspect that even as we speak, he is consolidating to him power more horrible than this continent has ever known.”

  “Who?” Lucas asked.

  “Daemastra,” the emperor said, a spark of anger lacing his tone.

  “The cuisinier?” Trick asked.

  “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 th
e 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.