Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  “I won’t,” she cried. “Never again. I promise you—”

  “We’ll never speak of this again,” he said, his voice breaking as he tightened his embrace, keeping her from looking at his face. Whatever had or hadn’t happened between them, he didn’t need to know.

  As she nodded against him, he breathed deeply, slowly, rigid.

  No, she couldn’t look. Right at this moment, she couldn’t be allowed to look.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to fight it, but damn it all, he couldn’t stop.

  “Brennan,” she whispered against his chest, hoarse, soft, and pushed against his embrace to raise her head.

  No, she couldn’t—

  “Brennan,” she whispered again, pleaded, and Great Wolf help him, he couldn’t deny her anything anymore. With a deep breath, he loosened his hold, and she raised her head, her teary eyes searching his.

  “Please,” she said softly, her eyelids drawing closed as her lips met his, the salt of her tears on his tongue, their heavy scent filling his nostrils, and the soft press of her mouth was the comfort he needed, the feel of her love against his skin.

  She urged his back down to the floor, and he let her do it, let her lips claim his, her tongue meet his, her body brace over his. As she settled over him, her warmth pressing against him, his hands couldn’t help but hold her, stroke her, encourage her, and there was a desperation inside of him stronger than he’d ever before felt, this need for her complete embrace, her utter acceptance, union between them that would mean she still wanted to belong to him, still wanted him to belong to her.

  Her kiss traveled lower as her fingers unbuttoned his coat, opened his shirt, unbuckled his belt. She’d wanted to pleasure him like this before, but his mind always went back to that shameful night at Tregarde nearly four years ago. It was only a matter of time before her mind would go there, too, and she’d remember him for the selfish, cruel scoundrel he’d been.

  He could never let her think of that again. Never see him that way again. Ever.

  If she ever looked at him that way again, blinked and saw the cruel, selfish boy he’d been four years ago return, he would lose her.

  She was all he’d ever wanted, and against all odds, in spite of every terrible thing he’d said and done, she was here, in his arms, his. It was a miracle that the boy at Tower ten years ago, rejected by his young fiancée, could have never fathomed. The boy who’d offered her the world, bared his heart to her, and been jilted.

  He was offering the world to her now, but he wouldn’t bare his heart again, not when it had only blackened since that night ten years ago, only turned uglier in his cruelty and selfishness, an ugliness he couldn’t stand her seeing. Couldn’t risk her seeing.

  His heart beat to racing, nearly exploding, and every muscle in his arms quivered. He tensed them against the tremor—she couldn’t notice, couldn’t realize what he was thinking. Just one glimpse of that ugliness, and it would all be over.

  He grasped her chin, urged her to meet his gaze. “Another time, bride,” he whispered, trying to sit up.

  She blinked, and such a warmth shone in her eyes, a softness, and her mouth curved in an affectionate smile. “You’re not that man anymore, Brennan,” she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his abdomen as she eyed him. “Place your trust in me.”

  Some part of him feared she’d remember his selfishness, his cruelty, and it would ruin everything. She’d leave.

  His trust—he’d… withheld it. Because no matter what he offered, what he did, how he changed, there would never be any certainty that she’d stay.

  “Let me love you,” she whispered, and kissed her way lower, lower…

  He closed his eyes once more and surrendered to the floor, to anything she wished to do, to any way she wished to love him, to her. To soft hands smoothing over his skin, to the loving press of her lips, to her complete embrace and utter acceptance… to the union between them that meant she still wanted to belong to him, still wanted him to belong to her.

  To pleasure as she gave, gave, gave, and he gasped, grazing fingers through her hair and sweeping it away from her face as he surrendered everything at last, and trusted her, and she kept that trust, stayed.

  As the pulse ebbed in his blood, she kissed below his navel and lay next to him, resting her head on his abdomen. He urged her up into the curve of his arm, and she wriggled closer, smiling at him with flushed cheeks.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” she said to him, those same words, her smile curving wider. But what he heard was I love you. I trust you. You can trust me.

  He rested a palm over her heart, absorbing its racing beat, and he would never let it go. And as long as he treated her well, she would never take it from him. He knew her boundaries, and he would never cross them. This was forever.

  “Brennan,” she said, and his name on her lips felt like a long, slow stroke of her fingers down his spine. She covered his hand with hers, her eyes sparkling. “Is it possible? Have I… have I left you speechless?” She laughed quietly under her breath.

  He leaned over her and kissed her, just a brush of his lips over hers at first, then deepening.

  Speechless… No, he had much to say. So very much. And he would tell it all to her, here and now, in ways words never could.

  Chapter 41

  Leigh slowed his horse as they neared the outskirts of Beaufort. The sun shone through the clouds at mid-morning, and at this time, on a day like this, any town would be bustling with business and movement.

  But not Beaufort.

  As far as he could see, only the clustered wooden buildings populated the town, with not a single soul on the dirt thoroughfare. A lone chicken waddled before them, pecked at something in the dirt, and continued on its way. He shuddered. Something was wrong.

  “Where is everyone?” Katia asked, pursing her lips. “Hello!” she called out.

  Leigh swatted at her. “Probably lining up to kill you now.”

  She puffed a breath and rolled her eyes.

  “Unusual, for a human settlement,” Ambriel said quietly, peering into the distance with squinted honey-gold eyes. “No people, but there’s the glow of candlelight in the window, there in that large building.”

  Among the clustered buildings was a three-story house, its steep roof peaking above the town like a guardian. The Beaufoy house.

  “That’s where we’re going,” Leigh said, urging his horse on. All of Beaufort seemed deserted, with not a single voice making a sound, not a single candle casting a light but for the Beaufoy house. Axelle was made of fire and steel, and as Archon, she would never abandon her territory, but what about her Coven? What about the town? Had they left? Had they died?

  Was Ava in the house?

  Della, can you hear me? he thought, concentrating. As a mind mage, she’d listened in often enough, and picked up on intense thoughts. Della.

  Nothing.

  The house loomed over the street, tall and menacing like a gargoyle, and as he dismounted and tethered his horse, a soft glow flickered in a second-story window. Ambriel and Katia tethered their horses out front, too, and followed him up as he ascended the stairs.

  Della, I’m here. Can you hear me?

  Not a single sound.

  Is Ava safe?

  “Leigh,” a feminine voice called from beyond the door. Della.

  He turned the knob, and there she was, standing before him, as waifish as ever, unruly dark-blond curls framing her tear-streaked face.

  She dropped her knapsack and ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, and he embraced her. “Leigh, praise Terra, you’re here,” she said in rapid Emaurrian, holding him tight. “What are you doing here?”

  “Enlisting support for the Crown, against the Immortals and the Divinity,” he whispered. “Where’s Ava?”

  “Where is everyone?” Katia asked, taking a step into the house.

  “Fled,” a rasping voice called from another room. A few footsteps, and the Archon o
f the Beaufoy Coven stood before them, waifish like her daughter, but taller, with gray streaks in her dark-blond curls and the wisest dark-blue eyes he’d ever seen. She crossed her arms over her plain white-cotton shirt, tucked into utilitarian gray breeches.

  “Fled? Why?” Katia asked.

  “The necromancer—” Della whimpered, pulling away.

  “Has taken all the dead in the cemetery, entire battlefields of dead Immortals, and the horde has killed anything living that has remained here,” Axelle said, striding to Katia. “We sent our Coven to the outskirts of our territory, and any survivors have fled as far as their feet could carry them. As you should, Forgeron witch.”

  Katia shook her head. “I’m here to help.”

  “Where’s Ava?” Leigh asked Della again, wiping away the tears from her cheeks as her midnight-blue eyes searched his.

  She clenched her teeth as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Leigh, the necromancer… It’s Ava.”

  Stillness seized him, freezing into his core, holding him there, and for a moment, just a moment, he couldn’t even move but to breathe.

  “Brice, one of our Coven, was with her in the forest. They ran into a dryad, we think, and he must have...” Della shook her head. “He was only a child, like Ava, and she—she had her éveil—”

  He’d left Ava here, abandoned her to her mother, all to keep her safe, and it hadn’t done any good.

  “She must have a very bright anima, Leigh,” Axelle said. “To be in fureur so long, it must be nearly limitless. Della has tried to get to her, venturing out every couple of days, but Ava’s too well insulated. Her horde keeps growing, and no one can get to her.”

  He hadn’t seen Ava, his own flesh and blood, since her birth. Had missed thirteen birthdays. Thirteen Midwinters. Thirteen Midsummers. Her éveil—If only he had been—

  A palm, warm and solid, closed on his shoulder, and Ambriel stepped next to him. With a finger, Ambriel stroked his jaw and turned his face.

  Those honey-gold eyes fixed on his, calm, loving. “We’ll find her together, dreshan. We’ll save her together.”

  They would. They’d find Ava and save her.

  He would… if it was the last thing he did.

  He nodded, took Ambriel’s hand, and turned to Della. “Where did you last see her?”

  “What are you going to do?” Della asked, a tremble breaking her voice.

  “There’s a cave system in the mountains,” Axelle supplied.

  “What are you going to do?” Della repeated, her voice raw.

  “She and the horde usually stay clear of the forest, keeping to the mountain, the caves, clearings, but any living thing that gets too close will draw them.”

  Della’s hands clasped on his arms. “Leigh,” she cried, shaking him. “What are you going to do?”

  He took her arms. “I’m going to save her, Della.”

  Ambriel removed an arcanir arrow from the quiver at his back and presented it to Della.

  “Arcanir,” Axelle said, approaching. “Good,” she added in Old Emaurrian. “If you hit her somewhere non-vital, you can break the fureur.”

  Ambriel nodded, then replaced the arrow in the quiver with a soft swish of his deep-olive wool cloak.

  “You’re going to shoot our daughter?” Della asked, frantically glancing between them.

  “We’re going to save her,” he repeated. “We’re going to destroy the horde, and bring her back safe and sound. I swear it.”

  Della held his gaze, searching his eyes for a lengthy moment, then gave a solemn nod. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Della—” he began.

  With a deep breath, Axelle wrapped an arm around Della’s shoulders. “Della is coming with you. If she can get close enough, she can take control of Ava’s mind,” she said. “Take anything you need, and bring my granddaughter home.”

  Out in the courtyard, Rielle followed Brennan’s movements with the practice sword, trying to do as he did. She swept it behind her back and struck. Then raising it high, she practiced a block.

  He paused and moved in, taking her wrist and practice sword to adjust it. “It has to be here,” he said, holding it up and away, with the middle-to-hilt part before her, “otherwise”—he brought down his hand on the practice sword, and it pressed into her forehead—“you’re going to get bloody.”

  Her cheeks heated, and she nodded. Whenever he fought, he always made it look so easy, but there was so much detail to remember, so many nuances that missing even one could get a person killed. He returned to her side and resumed the drill, which she followed, paying closer attention.

  When she’d told Brennan she never wanted to be without a blade again, he’d laughed and said she had him.

  But he couldn’t always be at her side. There would come a day when another challenge would arrive, and she wouldn’t let someone else spill blood for her sake, not when she could learn to fight ably enough herself. Surely not everyone had elemental magic sigils, and well, she had pillars of fire for everyone else.

  But the basilisk…

  She’d stayed up late, paging through Olivia’s books, but there was no certainty she’d be able to use her magic against a basilisk. They seemed to be immune to direct magic, and until she knew the venue for the second trial, there would be no telling whether she’d be able to use the environment.

  So, as untrained as she was, learning the sword was her best option, at least enough to get the pointy end into an Immortal beast without maiming herself.

  Across the courtyard, Samara sat at a table with a quill, ink, and the Sileni herbalist tome, looking up from time to time to purse her lips contemplatively or watch them practice. She’d arrived in the morning, and had spent the day with them, working.

  Rielle breathed deep. It was almost hard to believe that the day after tomorrow, she’d be fighting for her life. After telling him that she’d still had some remaining feelings for Jon, she’d expected… Well, not this. Not soft kisses and warm embraces in their bed, not waking up in his arms, spending the day together practicing. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been... love.

  But this past year, Brennan had defied her expectations, and he only continued to do so.

  Long before he was finished, she already hobbled toward Samara’s table, her thighs, arms, and shoulders burning.

  “Weak,” Brennan taunted after her, and she grimaced as she contorted into a seated position.

  “Dead, more like,” she remarked to Samara, who giggled.

  “I have a salve that’ll do wonders for sore muscles,” Samara said in Nad’i, setting her quill down.

  “Yes, please. I would like to be slathered in salve from head to toe, then wrapped in a blanket and deposited onto the nearest bed until the second trial,” Rielle grumbled, letting her head rest on the table next to the arcanir blade Jon had given her. She’d be taking it to the second trial, for better or for worse.

  “Do not… worry,” Samara said in slow Emaurrian, and it was enough to make Rielle smile and raise her head.

  The doors to the courtyard opened.

  “You’re improving quickly,” she said to Samara, eyeing Stefania as she brought refreshments. Finally, some water. As the maid set them down, she grabbed a cup only to find… milk. “This is…”

  “Milk,” Brennan said from behind her.

  “Why is it milk?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Just drink it. After a day of practice, your body craves it.”

  “And how would you know—” No, on second thought, it was not wise at all to ask him how he’d know what her body craved. Especially not in front of others.

  She bowed her head, biting her lip against a smile, and Samara laughed.

  “It will help you build your strength,” Samara offered, although she eyed Brennan curiously. “I’m not sure what I expected,” she whispered, “but I had no idea he’d be so…”

  “Humble? Charming? Devastatingly handsome?” Rielle offered, and she could just imagine Brennan�
�s smug grin as he heard every word.

  “It’s just that when I met—”

  “Thick as thieves,” Brennan said to them as he approached. He grabbed a cup of milk and drank as he sat. “What are you working on?”

  Brightening, Samara straightened and nudged the book with the feather of her quill. “I’ve just identified the gaps in my inventory and cross-referenced them with the available flora listed in The Sileni Herbal. I’d like to gather some ingredients locally when there’s time.”

  “Una’s been wanting to go for a ride,” Brennan offered. “Maybe you might join her and gather what you need?”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

  “She’ll be glad for the company.” Brennan smiled. “And the opportunity to practice her Nad’i.”

  Samara nodded and took a deep breath. “I’d love to, but it’s… it’s just hard to think about when there’s this deadly trial looming. Do you have a strategy?” Samara asked her.

  Ideally, she’d use geomancy. “It can’t be as simple as just fighting the beast in the right environment. My inclination would be geomancy to drop it, then crush it.”

  “Why can’t it be that simple? Surely it would test your skill as a mage?” Samara asked.

  “It’s not about testing skill.” Brennan set down his empty cup, then flipped it over. “No one would have had to die for that.”

  The first trial had proved that. Master Sen Taneie had been killed for no good reason, and the Grand Divinus had allowed it. The Divinity was supposed to fight for goodness, for justice, to help others.

  That was no longer the case. Or maybe it had never been.

  “There’s going to be a twist,” she murmured. “Something I don’t know and won’t be able to prepare for.”

  Brennan nodded to the arcanir blade. “Be prepared for anything.” He reached for her, stroked her hair from her head down to the end of her braid. “I’ll do as much as I can to give you a fallback skill.” His hazel eyes were soft, warm, as his slight smile widened. “But always remember that if you need me, I’m there.”