by Kira Brady
“Good Lady, no.” Lucia surprised herself. What did normal girls do at eighteen? Maybe she could go to college. Get a job. If there still were colleges and jobs post-Unraveling. Maybe she should build a college so that Kivati women with weak or nonexistent Aether skills like her wouldn’t be held back by the Kivati’s stranglehold on tradition and antiquity. What a thought. Her mother would have a coronary.
“Give her a break,” Delia said. “She just earned her freedom. Let a girl play the field a little.”
Alice set down her teacup. “I’m as much for women’s emancipation as the next feminist, but people need to know if you’re not going to marry because . . .”
“Because I’m damaged goods?” Lucia bit out.
Delia squeezed her hand. “Be free, Luce. It’s a new beginning. No dead Babylonian gods marching on the city. No restrictive engagements tying you down.”
Lucia had a brief image of Corbette tying her ankle and wrist to the massive four-poster bed, the crimson of the silk bindings like a slash of blood against the dark mahogany and his midnight sheets.
And then the daydream faded beneath the real memory of the ritual in the Sacred Caves beneath the city. Her limbs tied to the stone altar. Her lifeblood flowing in rivulets into the ceremonial trough to make the Gate come crashing down.
Stop it. Stop it! The Raven Lord didn’t want her anymore, and no wonder, when she couldn’t think of a man without panic. She’d worked so hard with Kayla, the healer, to fuse the broken rents in her spirit. Grace, the aptrgangr hunter, had taught her to fight so she’d never be a victim again. And now Emory Corbette, who gave up control for no man, had set her free to choose her own path. A gift, precious as an ice crystal. She should be grateful.
She cupped her hands around the tea mug, but there wasn’t enough heat in the whole pot to warm her.
The tables nearby had been eavesdropping, and the usual polite conversation turned heated. Buckner, the head of the Cougar clan, actually thumped on his table to get his point across. The china tinkled like a death rattle. His pretty young mate threw up her hand to stabilize the teacup from spilling on the baby nursing at her breast. They had no reason to welcome change, but the Coyote who was their dining companion stood up and growled.
“Don’t be naive,” Alice said. She waved off the sandwiches. So did Lucia, her appetite gone. A splatter of rain hit the windows overhead. The train engine gave a little hiccup of steam and chugged off to the next table. “The Gate might be closed, Kingu might be defeated, but the Kivati are not safe by a long shot. I want to know what my brother is up to. Do you actually believe he let you go? The Harbinger?”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t been himself, but you’ll still have to pry control from his cold dead hands. Emory will crush this dissent, and he will be ruthless. He’s just biding his time. You look like you’re shacking up with Kai—”
“I’m not!”
“Doesn’t matter. You positioned yourself against him, and he’s coming for you.”
“He would never hurt me.”
Alice set her teacup down. A bit of tea spilled over the rim. She set her hands carefully in her lap, and Lucia realized they’d been shaking. “I’m his flesh and blood, and I’ve been banished for over a century. You might be the Crane, but you’re nothing but a tool to him.”
Lucia felt cold down to her bones. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
“Find yourself a strong ally and quickly.”
A huge black bird crashed into the windows and rattled the ceiling of glass. The glass cracked at the point of collision and split like a forked thunderbolt down to the ground. A second later another bird followed, and the two rolled across the curved roof, clawing and screeching and stabbing with their knifelike beaks. The room erupted. Ladies in pastel afternoon gowns and lords in dark three-piece suits rushed to the windows to get a better view.
“What’s going on?” Delia asked. “Is that . . . Rafe?”
Lucia sucked in a breath as a crimson stream of blood shot across the windows. Long black feathers stuck in the leaded seams and across the smear of red. Rafe was one of Kai’s Crows in the Western House. Was this the first bloodshed between Kai’s and Corbette’s supporters?
Alice didn’t move.
“You know,” Lucia accused. “What is it?”
“My brother pulled an ancient Kivati rite out of the history books. It’s a challenge: brawn, brains, and heart.”
“But Corbette is the strongest,” Delia said. “That’s why he’s king. He’d win any challenge.”
“He’s not going to enter,” Alice said. “He’s going to find a new head of the Northern House to replace Jace Raiden and tie up all his loose ends with one fell swoop. The new head will be completely dependent on Emory’s support until he brings the loyalty of his House under wing.”
“So he’ll firm up the hierarchy of the Kivati with a new general, but what do you mean, ‘all his loose ends’?” Lucia asked. “What else?”
“You will crown the victor of the tournament,” Alice said, “and as part of his prize for winning, he gets your hand in marriage.”
Lucia felt her blood run hot and cold, ice and hellfire dancing along already tight nerves.
“So figure out who you can live with and start making connections,” Alice said. “Because you don’t want Emory picking out your husband for you. You have a tiny sliver of leeway to influence who wins the tournament, but you’ve got to start pulling strings now.”
Lucia thought she might be sick. “How kind of him,” she said, tongue firmly in her cheek, “to give me any say at all.”
Chapter Three
Lucia tuned out the buzz of neighboring tables and stood, making sure her face didn’t reveal the tempest brewing beneath her skin. She gave her dining companions a tight nod and walked away, out of the conservatory and down the hall. The news was already spreading. Her feet slowly picked up speed. She would outrun the panic attack that clutched at her chest. Following nothing but the eddies of Aether, the wood-paneled walls blurred as she passed. Away, she thought. That was all that mattered. Far and farther still, until she left the last passing stranger and found a door that wasn’t locked. She wasn’t going to lose it in front of people. She wasn’t going to lose it at all. Inside, a library. In her anger, the Aether sprung from her hand and slammed the door shut behind her, leaving her in a dimly lit room, air thick with ink and old paper, leather and cloves, and blessed, blessed silence.
That bastard. She hurled her small purse against the far wall, where it bounced off the sturdy row of books and fell to the ground in a scattering of change. “Gaaaaaaaah!” He let her think she was free. Free to make her own decisions and free to choose her own path and free to find love. But no. How silly of her. Of course the Raven Lord couldn’t leave her well enough alone. Of course the man who loved control more than his own mother would try to manipulate her into doing exactly what he wanted. He didn’t come right out and arrange a match for her. That would be too lowering. By calling the tournament, he gave her the appearance of freedom, while still getting exactly what he wanted: her tied up and off his hands.
Lady damn him!
She turned around and ran smack into a black waistcoat. Firm, which meant it hid muscle. Black, which could mean any number of men. But the telltale scent of ink and cedar was enough to make her stumble back. Corbette. His large hands seized her arms and kept her standing. He had long fingers, like a pianist, and square nails. Blue and black lines ran across skin. She expected to find diamond cuff links, but in a rare show of skin, he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He had the forearms of a man who dug coal for a living with the ink-stained fingers of a poet. As body parts went, the forearm was not the most seductive, but never before had she felt quite so weak at the sight of so much strength.
She could feel his pulse vibrating through his hands into her bones, and the blood in her body pulled along to its piper’s tune. Her heart spe
d, her breath hitched. A little stumble and a stutter that gave her away. The threat of panic faded completely, replaced with emotions of a hotter kind.
And still, she hadn’t looked up into his face.
And still, he hadn’t spoken a word.
But the moment stretched. How could she not have noticed the room was occupied when he heated it with his presence? Of course, there was no room that he didn’t own. There was no man, woman, or child in all of Kivatidom that didn’t call him lord and master.
The Crane inside her stretched as tendrils of Aether rolled down his skin and into hers. Little pulses of life and magic. Little furls of heat.
He shouldn’t have this effect on her. He saw her as nothing more than a tool.
Rage curled tightly in a ball in her chest. She pulled her lips in an irreverent grin, surprised that the old expression slipped smoothly over her features like an old love. She’d been good at needling him once. She could do it again. Never let the bastards see you cry.
She looked up into eyes screaming with violet, the pupils so black they were nothing but pinpricks into the Spider’s realm. Cold and sharp and hungry.
Whatever sarcastic comment she’d been about to say went numb on her lips.
He broke the silence first. “Who is chasing you?”
“No one. I’m just starved for a good book.”
“Help yourself.” He motioned to the stacked shelves. The flash of his smile drew her eyes down to his lips. Gods. He’d never even kissed her. Was she so undesirable? So untouchable that she inspired no lust, no passion? Well, fuck it. Rising on her tiptoes, she had the brief glimpse of his lips parting in surprise, his eyes widening, before she took what she’d always wanted from him.
Anger gave way to heat. Aether sparked where their lips met. If he hadn’t been holding so tightly to her arms, she would have fallen backward. He didn’t give her the chance. The Aether shocked down every nerve ending straight to her core, and suddenly she was wet and aroused and wound tighter than a spindle.
He set her away from him.
“What was that?” he asked, voice like uncut diamonds.
She touched her lips with a shaking hand. “A kiss.” I think. Lady be, if that was what one kiss between them was like, maybe it was a good thing they’d never made it this far.
“Ah.” He released her and took a wide step back. His straight ebony hair tufted out from his sculpted jaw. If the Drekar were angels of light, he was the prince of darkness, and he looked truly mad in this moment.
“Is that all you can say?”
“Lady Lucia—”
“Lady!” How could he distance them after a kiss like that?
“Always.”
Corbette watched her eyes flash fire. Lady be praised, the battle with Kingu hadn’t taken what was left of her spunk. If anything, it had restored it. She hadn’t been herself since the Unraveling.
Neither had he.
He hadn’t drunk more than a finger of gin to take the edge off, but after that blast of Aether he felt a full three sheets to the wind. He couldn’t trust himself around her. With that anger bubbling to the surface she was once again the girl who’d driven him half mad, except now he couldn’t delude himself. She was a woman. Not the woman he’d thought he wanted. Not the calm, peaceful, elegant influence that’d make a good queen.
She was a woman he couldn’t get out of his head. Wrong for him. Wrong for the Kivati. And, good gods, he wanted her. The tournament had to happen. Will was right: she had to be contained and off-limits to him. Once she was safely wed, her mate could protect her. “You’ve heard the news,” he said.
Her hands balled into her skirt.
“As the Crane, it’s your responsibility—”
“You didn’t even have the courtesy of asking me.”
“It’s not about you.”
“My marriage isn’t about me?” Angry pink splotches appeared on her high cheekbones. “Of course not. What am I saying? It has never been about me.”
“That’s not true—”
“Gods!” She spun and walked to the edge of the room. He watched her hips sway away from him. He liked the view too much, but she was off-limits. Turning again, she stalked part of the way back.
“You have your pick. The tournament only helps you decide from the strongest and smartest of the pack,” he said.
“What if I don’t wish to marry?”
He paused. “You must.” Because I can’t have you.
She threw her hands up with a growl. “Haven’t you ever wanted to rebel?”
“Never.”
“You’ve never wanted to throw off everyone’s expectations and live only for yourself? Think what you might do if you weren’t the Raven.”
“But I am—”
“You could do anything. There would be no one and nothing to tell you what to say or think or do. You could be free.”
“You think someone told me to do this work? I chose this path.” He stepped closer to her and let her feel the power in his body. He moved for no man. Every action he’d ever taken had been a carefully measured risk. “This is my vocation. I hold this responsibility because there is no one else to do it, and the work is great. Thousands depend on me. Of course I feel the weight, but there is honor in serving my people. Would I trade it all for the ability to cut loose and drink till dawn and gamble my fortune away? Would I give up—”
“Control.”
“—responsibility in order to waste my life away in petty, selfish, narcissistic pleasure? Never in a million years.” Lifting her delicate chin with his finger, he forced her to meet his eyes. She held the dominance in his gaze for a long heartbeat, then looked away. Leading the force against Kingu had restored some of her self-confidence. He wished he could have been there to see it. “Those of us destined to lead must put our own desires aside for the good of the whole. We can’t afford to be selfish. I learned that the hard way from my father. We sacrifice, but we get something infinitely better in return: the knowledge that our people will be healthy and whole. You and I are cogs in the Lady’s great spinning wheel. It’s enough to know that our efforts won’t be in vain.” It had to be enough.
His words dimmed the spark in her eyes. She dropped her gaze to his chest.
“You can do this, Lucia.”
“Yes, Lord Raven.”
“Good.” He dropped his hand before he could reach for her. The woman destroyed his carefully calibrated peace of mind. How he’d ever thought he could marry her and stay sane was a mystery.
“Smile, darling,” Constance said, brushing a stray wisp of hair from Lucia’s face and tucking it behind her ear. “This show is for you.”
Lucia gave a tight-lipped smile. Her mother was happy Lucia had agreed to show up, and she still harbored the illusion that Corbette planned to swoop in, win the contest, and redeem her eldest daughter. On Constance’s other side, Lucia’s father, Milton, gave a steady rundown of the contestants, their net worth and their political and Aether power. If her mother had allowed it, he would have been placing bets on the winners like horses at the Kentucky Derby.
Sunday evening spread pink and gold across the sky, bathing Queen Anne with the promise of new hope. The steep hill overlooking the crumbling downtown could have been plucked right from the turn of the twentieth century. The Queen Anne houses in pastels and gingerbread that gave the hill its name wound around and over the hill like lattice frosting on a wedding cake. The imposing Georgian mansion splashed yellow and white against the blue. The wide cedar veranda and long grassy lawns were packed like a carnival—balloons, kites, and kettle corn included.
Lucia stewed. She barely saw the muddy ring where three combatants fought for her hand. Muscle and skin and testosterone . . . and it was all for her. The tournament would run for a week. Today was a show of physical prowess. Tomorrow, cunning. Tuesday would be the test of heart.
“You have to admit, this is pretty cool,” Delia said. “When have you ever seen Kivati showing off their sk
ills in the open?”
All along the edge of the park, overlooking Elliott Bay, Kivati showed off their Aether skills. Earth workers blew cannonballs of dirt across the bay toward Alki and coaxed roses from the ashen ground. Water workers called sculptures of ice from the frozen waves and dashed their opponents’ creations against the rocks. Kivati with air power swooped in totem form across the sky, diving and tearing at each other. Feathers rained down on the lawn. The Thunderbirds hadn’t started pulling thunderbolts out of the air yet, but they’d probably wait until nightfall when the blue blasts of condensed Aether sparkled and singed against the night sky.
“Never in my life,” Constance said. She wore her best dress, ready to impress the contestants as the mother of the bride. Her skin and hair shone, but her eyes were tight. “Never have we lived so openly.”
“So why don’t you look more relaxed?” Lucia asked.
“A long life of conditioning. Be secret: be safe. You have it so good, Lucia. You don’t know what it was like growing up outside the shelter of Kivati Hall. An outsider, always on the run. Your grandparents would have called you spoiled, free to sit here, nice gowns and soft fingers. When I think of Sarah’s sacrifice—” Constance broke off and took out a white handkerchief to dab her eyes. Her mother’s sister had been kidnapped and killed by Drekar right before Lucia’s birth. She hated to talk about it. “You have a chance to make something of yourself. To be something and prove everyone wrong. Don’t mess it up.”
Milton patted his wife’s hand. “Enough of that. Look how many warriors are out vying for her hand. We’ll be rid of her soon enough.” Her father had been half joking, but her mother burst into tears and turned to sob into his jacket. He glared at Lucia from over her head, brown mustache twitching. “Before this day is through, love, I’m sure Lucy will have a pick. The strongest warrior of the lot. She’ll be safe, don’t you worry.”
“But she doesn’t ever l-listen!” Constance cried. “She throws away everything we’ve sacrificed for her.”
