Torrent of Tears (Scourge Survivor Series Book 3)

by JL Madore

  I lifted my finger to my cheek and tapped below my eye. “I knew it was an old recording. You didn’t have a shiner. Besides, nothing they do changes how I feel about—”

  The beep of a keycard swiping through the hall scanner had Rowan shoving me into the bathroom. “Stay here.”

  Stay here? Staring at my tousled, bejeweled reflection I realized those might be the last words my husband ever spoke to me. Was that our goodbye? Would our final moments be us fighting about sex recordings and him being the Queen’s plaything?

  The muffle of male voices in the next room had me gripping the door handle. Morning inspection. There were three, I thought, and someone was coming toward the door. Shit. I was naked and supposed to be his sister.

  “My sister—”

  “Is in the shower. Yeah, I heard you. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  I grabbed a towel and bent at the waist, twisting my hair until the black was covered. The tail of the fabric fell over my shoulder as I tucked the second towel around my body. Elani and I were similar in size and sadly, build. Maybe, if the Fates were busy screwing someone else’s life I might get away with impersonating—

  The door bumped me in the ass as the Strati stepped in. I dropped my gaze and assumed a submissive pose.

  “Elani,” Rowan choked. “The soldiers are here to reset your collar.”

  I shifted my rounded shoulders like Elani did and gave the soldier access. While he opened the clasp to the controls of the collar, I adjusted the tail of my terry turban hiding the pattern of jewels smattering down my neck and collarbone. I didn’t dare breathe. My eyes were locked on the thighs of the soldier. If he saw my purple pupils he’d know who I was.

  At first, he seemed oblivious to me, inserting a miniature USB thing into the neck piece. When that beeped, he closed the clasp and I prayed that would be the end of it. But no. As he moved behind me, he gripped the towel at my hips and pushed me up against the counter. Before I could turn he swung the door shut and closed us in together.

  Rowan cursed and by the muffled scuffle and thud going down on the other side of the door, the other Strati was dealing with Rowan’s protests. My heart skipped a beat then kicked into high gear. Should I fight back and expose us? Could we still get away with him thinking I was Elani?

  A meaty hand grabbed at the tuck of my towel and I raised my hand to stop him. He was ready for me, capturing my wrist and pulling it behind my back. “Feeling feisty today are you, little girl?”

  I drew a deep breath through my nose and kept my head down. Raised voices bled through the door. Rowan was about to lose his shit. I had to make a decision here, one way or the other. When fingers slid under the hem of my towel and grabbed my bare crotch I snapped.

  Spinning around with my elbow I caught the bastard in the temple. The force of my blow sent him into the wall and I swept his supporting foot. As he ass-planted on the tile floor I plowed him one in the face.

  Dazed, he scrambled to block my fists.

  “Fuck you,” I growled, pulling my fist back for one more strike. “Not used to little girls fighting back are you, big man?” The fire in my gut ignited and it felt so good to let that shit fly. I lost track of the pummeling I gave him, but when I was done, I picked the blood splattered towel off the bathroom floor and tossed it over the piece of shit. That taken care of, I grabbed a fresh towel to wrap around myself and snagged big man’s pain stick.

  One down, three hundred to go.

  It took a bit to cover my hair again and give myself a quick rinse off. I moved as quickly as I could. After the scuffle in the bedroom, it had gotten far too quiet out there. I needed to get to Rowan, but if everything was cool, I didn’t want to tip our hand either.

  Opening the door only enough to slip through, I closed it behind me.

  “Done so soon—” The other soldier was pouring himself a drink at the bar.

  I kept my gaze down but found Rowan sitting by the fire in his boxers, looking like he was fighting not to explode. He had a split lip to go with his shiner and didn’t that make my blood boil. His gaze locked with mine and I nodded.

  S’all good, Doc. Stay cool. I got this.

  The soldier realized something was wrong almost instantly. The energy in the air changed and everything slipped into a slow-mo action sequence like in the movies. His glass slid onto the top of the buffet with a dull thud and I curled my fingers tight around the leather grip of the Strati weapon hidden behind my thigh.

  His fingers edged toward his hip. “Where’s. . . ?”

  In one powerful surge, I sprang the distance and engaged. When you’re light on steel, there’s nothing like the advantage of a surprise attack. I took him to the floor with a flying tackle, catching him around the neck and shoulder and wrenching him around like a pretzel. We landed hard, his considerable weight more than double mine. My hip screamed like a bitch. He managed a solid hit to my gut, but even as the air punched out of my lungs I smiled.

  Gods, I love a good fight.

  The combination of my strength and him underestimating me from the get-go—probably thinking I was Elani—made it possible to deliver a paralyzing blow before he even clued in he was about to be expired.

  Straightening over the body, I felt Rowan’s gaze burning into my spine. Damn. He’d never seen me in action before. Would he be horrified that his wife was a killer? As the silence droned on, I took a long inhale and gathered my shit. After I reclaimed my towel I pivoted and met his stare. He was focused, his eyes peeled wide.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, raising my palms to him. I stood my ground, giving him a minute to see that I was still me. Lexi. His wife. “I’m sorry. Sometimes when I work, I get—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” he said. “You told me you were a warrior. You said you could take care of yourself, but I had no idea. I never imagined.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  With his gaze locked on me, he rose up and stalked forward. “You amaze me. More every moment.”

  I exhaled the breath frozen in my chest and stepped into his arms. “How’s your lip?” I gave his face a gentle prod and he shook his head.

  “Please don’t think I’m useless.”

  I eased back to see him better. “Why would I think that?”

  “Both times we’ve faced trouble, I’ve done nothing to help you.” He stepped back and gripped my shoulders, looking serious. “I swear, I can hold my own. I’m not a coward. I want you to know that. I was just trying to keep you safe.”

  “Whether you can fight or not, I don’t care—”

  “I can fight,” he said. His grip on my shoulders was getting painful and I understood why. I grew up with warriors. It was the universal law of cock and balls: Men protect their women.

  I reached up on my tiptoes and kissed his lips. “Let’s get cleaned up. If we’re taking down my mother, we need ammunition.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Why couldn’t it be this way?” I gestured down the stark empty hallway that led away from the hustle and hoopla of the palace kitchen and sighed. “But no,” I whispered. “Since we need secrecy, the room we want has to be splat in the middle of the fricken circus that is our lives.”

  I followed Rowan down yet other boring white hallway and prayed for once that the Fates stopped screwing with me.

  Rowan chuckled and nodded that the coast was clear. “That which doesn’t kill us. . . .”

  “. . . better run like hell, because it’s not getting another shot at us.”

  Rowan kissed my hand and pulled me along, his shoulders bouncing as he laughed. “And that’s why I love you, Lady Rowan.”

  Lady Rowan. Man, I loved the sound of that. With my one dagger sheathed behind my leg, I was hoping not to run into anyone other than staff. From my experience with chance encounters in the staff areas of the palace, they were like timid little mice. A living example of ‘they’re more afraid of you then you are of them’ and that totally worked for me.

  “Do you
even know where you’re going?” I asked.

  Rowan’s head tilted from side to side as we descended a set of stairs. “Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  I was just about to start our first fight as a married couple when we rounded a corner and collided smack into a staff kid rolling a liquor trolley. Bottles clanged and toppled and the three of us scrambled to save as many of the glass soldiers from death-by-marble as we could. The crash-and-smash of three unlucky fellows echoed in the halls like cannon shots.

  The poor boy looked horrified, but Rowan was on it. He adjusted the bottles to fill the space and told the boy that if anyone noticed bottles were missing to say that two Strati took them and headed toward the orchard. No one would go looking for them. The boy seemed hesitant at first, but shoved the broken glass to the side with his boot and nodded.

  With our trolley friend off on his way, we resumed the search for the Fae Trinity Chapel and hopefully the palace records room.

  “Here.” Rowan took the key his godfather had given us and opened the door. As we stepped inside, the lanterns flared to life and he locked us in. Four, long chapel pews carved with tomes—scenes from ancient battles, men fighting, women swooning, children clutching to the gowns of their mothers—segmented the rectangular space.

  On the wall behind the raised altar was the same depiction of the Fae Royals that we had over the main entrance of the castle back at Haven. Castian, of course, was front and center, his brother Dane to his right, Alyssa, Shalana, Zophia and her three bitch-sisters all looking sultry and resplendent and—oh, they still had Rheagan in this family sculpture.

  Rheagan had been removed from all Pantheon depictions of the Royals in the Realm of the Fair right after Castian exiled her. I guess Attalos didn’t get the memo. I wondered if the fallen Fae goddess knew Abaddon and the Scourge were fighting to set her free. After ten thousand years of being banished as a sea beast, would she even care?

  “Lexi? You with me?”

  Right. Following the priest’s instructions, we made our way to the dais and found the crescent moon brooch on Castian’s cape. Rowan grabbed the marble dial and fought to turn it once all the way around. When it settled back into its original position, the wall let out a click and a seam appeared where a moment ago there was none.

  Bingo.

  “Hurry,” I said. “Zale and his band of bastards will know I’m missing by now and be searching. If they think to check the Queen’s playroom for you, we’re busted.”

  With both of us pulling at the exposed lip of the door we managed to pull it far enough for me to squeeze through. There was no way my brawny husband was fitting. “You keep watch, I’ll check it out.”

  Rowan frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you—”

  “What’s the worst that can happen, Doc? I get stuffed-up from mildew and dust.” I rolled my eyes and grabbed a lantern from the wall. “You know what they say, Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.”

  “Who says that?” Rowan snorted.

  “They. People. You know. Them.”

  Rowan shook his head. “No one says that. Now get your perfect little ass in there so we can get done and out of here.”

  “Roger that.” I slid inside and lifted the lantern. My heart sank. Books and parchments and scrolls and tomes in every direction. From what I could see, no alphabetization, no order, in fact, I was pretty sure Mr. Dewey Decimal was rolling over in his grave. “Don’t priests take a vow of neatness or something, cause uh . . . wow.”

  Rowan peered through the crack at the door. “I think they’re more concerned with poverty, murder, adultery . . . that sort of thing.”

  “Well, that’s not going to help me in here.” Leaning over the one long table in the room, I hooked the lantern on the pendant hanging from the ceiling above and started flipping through some of the piles. It was still amazing to me that I could even read this.

  Blah. Blah. Blah. Land registry. Blah. Blah. Old marriage records. Some architectural drawings for the addition of the amphitheatre. Blah. Blah. Law books. Nothing.

  I straightened and caught sight of—”Oh, these look promising.”

  Skipping past an avalanched pile of leather-bound books, I fingered the spines of a set of journals bearing the royal seal and the same serpent-entwined rod that was embroidered on the side of Rowan’s medical bag. Skimming through the pages I read the documentation of an appendectomy preformed two years ago on Princess Forbearance. I snorted. “Maybe Grace isn’t so bad as designations go.”

  I slid that journal back in place and pulled one out further down the line. It was older, but still not far enough back. A few more tries and—

  “Someone’s coming,” Rowan hissed. “Get the light.”

  I willed the flame to snuff as he slid the door a sliver from being shut tight.

  “What are you doing in here?” A voice barked in the chapel.

  “Enjoying some privacy,” Rowan answered. “Is there a problem?”

  I held my breath and stood statue still. The sound of shuffling feet moved closer. My heart thrummed double time. Was the opening of the door noticeable? Could I get out to help Rowan if things went south?

  “What’s this?” the Strati asked.

  I drew my knife from under my skirt and readied to launch. The ping of a phone stick seemed to echo off the chapel walls. “No, not her, but I found the Queen’s whore in the chapel . . . yes sir . . . on our way.”

  I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat remained. Don’t take Rowan. Don’t take Rowan. Please, Fates if you’ve ever listened to me, don’t let him take—

  “Come with me,” the Strati commanded. “The last of the dramas has begun. The Nobles are readying to begin the marriage ceremonies.”

  “I’ll be right up,” Rowan said. “I just need to—”

  “—you’re coming now, whore,” the soldier boomed. There was a quick shuffle, then a dull thud and Rowan choked for breath. I moved with as much speed and stealth as I could, intending to blast through the door, but stopped just short of the door. The chapel was silent. I leaned close to the crack in the door and searched the chapel beyond.

  They were gone.

  The thought made my stomach queasy and my palms sweat. Gods, my heart was not so much beating, but flipping out in my chest.

  He’s fine. We were just going our separate ways for a bit and then I’d find him and everything will be fine. Yeah . . . right. Damn. I couldn’t even believe my own bullshit.

  Turning back to the journals I brought the lantern back to life and continued reading what I’d found. There were dozens of entries during the period the Queen had fallen ill. Speculations and panic from healers, the doctor at the time, clergy, and any number of others they hoped could shed light on what was happening.

  What caught my attention were the references to her eye color. In the beginning examinations, her eyes were listed as moss green and clear. Later, during intermittent exams, while she’d lain unconscious for weeks, her eyes were listed as being a deep emerald.

  There were also mentions of fitful dreams and her healers complaining of an evil entity trying to possess her. They dismissed it as hoohaw. I shivered as the memory of the icy chill entered my chest. Hoohaw my ass. The notes from the final examination on her blood work that gave me the quakes.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  Reduced to mono-syllabic thoughts I fought to think of another answer. It couldn’t be. But what else could it be? Nothing. Apparently, after weeks of her lying in a fitful coma she’d just woken up. Her eyes had popped open and she sat up, right as rain. Under protest she’d agreed to a final exam which was when they’d discovered that her blood had changed from the normal scarlet to a rich, royal violet.

  Royal . . . violet.

  I dropped the book and bolted for the crack in the door. As I tugged at the stone edge I let my mind fly through the impossibility of what I was thinking.

  The only people I knew that had purple blood were th
e Originals. The royal family of the Fae Pantheon. Castian had it. I’d seen the depiction of his seven drops of purple blood creating the Elven race a zillion times on the walls of the castle stairway. Zophia had it.

  The door gave way enough for me to barely squeeze out. Not all Originals had emerald eyes . . . only Castian, his brother Dane and his half-sister—Rheagan.

  The golden train of my outfit caught on the stone of the door and tore as I forced my way into the chapel. The carved frieze on the wall seemed to be mocking me. Why hadn’t I figured this out when she pricked her finger in her study . . . the purple blood . . . the emerald eyes . . . my mother was possessed by Rheagan, and the bitch was making a play for a comeback into the Realm of the Fair.

  I fell to my knees and for the first time in my life I prayed—prayed as though my life depended on it.

  Because it did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The pounding of my boot heels into the marble floor vibrated in my head. My thighs burned as my strides cut the distance between me and the amphitheatre. I flew around a corner, the tattered train of my dress billowing behind me as the halls disappeared in a blur of white.

  The Queen would be in the amphitheatre, overseeing the dramas, manipulating my mindless sisters into half a dozen arranged marriages. I sort of felt sorry for them. They were sheep. My heart pounded in my chest, the tightness of breath the same now as when the Queen had tried to possess me—

  No. Rheagan tried to possess me. The same way she possessed my mother. Gods, was there any chance my mother—the true Queen—was still somewhere inside herself.

  With my insides balled up and writhing in my gut I paused inside the archway to the amphitheatre. The place was packed, the audience seated in ascending stone benches arcing from one side of the stage to the other, rising in rings to a hundred feet near the back. The crowd, absorbed with the drama on stage, was a scene from a Greek tragedy themselves. They were puppets and they either didn’t have the distance to see it, the courage to question it, or were too entranced by the illusion Rheagan had cast to realize it.