by Tara West
Quin took her hand and rubbed it with callused fingers. “Why not?”
“I just don’t.” If she told them everything, they’d lose their minds. Besides, she had no idea where to begin or if she had the emotional fortitude to tell the sordid tale.
“He mistreats her,” Titus grumbled. “She won’t admit it, but I can tell.”
“This war can’t come soon enough.” Theron pushed off from the mantel and paced. “I will slit his throat myself.”
Titus crossed thick arms. “Not if I do it first.”
Theron turned to her. Thankfully, there was no judgment in his eyes. “Did he send you here to negotiate a truce?”
Her shoulders fell. “Yes.”
“There will never be peace between us as long as a Milas rules.”
She’d already been made painfully aware of that, and she refused to dwell on it a moment longer. Her mission would fail, and her parents, Lea, and possibly Jade would be killed if Evander wasn’t able to save them.
“Are we to stay in this hut all day?” She drove visions of her husband’s demonic eyes and black blood from her mind. “I need fresh air.”
Theron waved at the window as the wind shook the leather flaps. “It’s cold outside.”
“I know that,” she snapped, not meaning to sound so bitter, though a black fog had settled over her heart.
A knock rattled the door.
Titus unbolted it once again and cracked it open. “What is it?”
His words were muffled by the wind. With her Fae-touched senses, she vaguely made out that her uncle had issued them orders.
Titus slammed the door. “General Faustus has ordered us to take Kyria on our rounds. He’s assigned us to the widows.”
Quin grimaced. “She won’t like it.”
“That’s probably what he’s hoping,” Theron said. “Maybe he thinks she holds sway with the king.”
She snorted at that, then regretted it when they gave her assessing looks.
Quin held out a hand to her. “You need to dress in layers to stay warm.” As if to emphasize his point, the wind shook the cabin walls.
Her teeth had chattered so hard last night, she thought they’d shatter, but she would’ve preferred a lifetime with her three brave defenders in this hostile world to just one horrific night as the king’s bride.
KING AHRI MILAS PACED his bedchamber until he wore a path in the plush carpet. He’d waited all day for news from Brutus and still nothing. His general should’ve sent information by now. Something had happened to impede the mission, but what? General Faustus wouldn’t harm his niece, would he? Like all defender generals before him, Anton had had a soft spot for his family. Milas was counting on that weakness to fulfil his plan.
He’d had enough of waiting and decided to check on his mage’s progress. Though she didn’t like it when he visited her laboratory, he was tired of the delay. When she’d come up with this idea nearly two decades ago, he’d had no idea it would take so long.
He left his room in a huff. His loyal guard, Evander, was waiting for him. Evander followed him as he marched down the stairs to the dungeon. His personal guard never asked questions and obediently followed orders. He was the perfect, mindless ruffian, unlike his two generals, Brutus and Ergor, who, though they followed his orders, observed him with keen interest. After they’d successfully murdered the queen, Milas would have Evander dispose of them. Those thugs knew too much, and they’d soon use their knowledge to blackmail him.
Leaving Evander guarding the door to Demendia’s lab, he followed a putrid smell and loud purring sounds deep into the depths of her chamber. He stared over the edge of a pit, a huge crater carved out under the castle with what resembled a bird’s nest at the edge of a deep lake. Demendia was with her dragons, six hideous beasts with razor sharp teeth, long serpentine necks, and a stink that reminded him of expired fish rotting on the shore. They were curled around each other in the nest, their useless translucent wings tucked around them, and Demendia sprawled on the largest dragon’s scales as if she was a goddess. Ever since she’d created her “babies,” she’d paid him less attention, spending fewer nights in his bedchamber and more with her beasts. He had no idea what she saw in them, but he couldn’t deny her rejection stung. She used to worship him; now she paid homage to six reeking lizards. She’d cried big ugly tears when one of them had escaped and been killed. She even wore the stupid black mourning poppies in her hair. Milas doubted she’d grieve that much if he were to perish.
“Demendia!” he called down to her, snarling at the dragons when they growled at him.
“Be still, my babies.” She looked at her largest dragon, a big blue beast with long flappers that ended in primitive toes, reminding him of malformed legs. “Torin, be a good boy.” She patted his scales before climbing over tails and claws.
Disgusted, he retreated from the pit when she ascended the rope ladder.
They went to her lab, a cavern carved out of black stone that adjoined the dungeon. Despite the cave-like feel, Demendia had added a feminine touch, with golden sconces on the walls and several elegant pieces of furniture, including the four-poster bed where they’d fucked on numerous occasions, though that was before he’d been replaced by the dragons. There was also a dresser, buffet, and dining table made of marble, each adorned with fresh flowers and resting on finely woven emerald green rugs. She’d created a luxury home in her laboratory. No wonder she frequented his bedchamber less often. It was any wonder she surfaced at all. If she could learn how to fuck her dragons, he doubted she’d ever have use for him again.
The only blight in her perfect little world was a single-cell dungeon where she kept her test subjects. They stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, grimy faces pressed into the bars. He ignored their cries for food, water, and their mothers. They were necessary sacrifices for the cause, and he felt no remorse, only annoyance when their plaintive voices grew louder.
When Demendia walked into the laboratory, her green cape billowing behind her, the girls ran into the shadows. His nostrils flared when he scented an alluring jasmine perfume. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fair-haired girl standing at attention outside the cell, dressed in a gray servant’s robe. His groin stirred at the sight of her. Odd, for she was too thin by his standards, but something in the way she bowed her head, looking up at him through thick lashes, stirred his desire. Though he hadn’t slept with another woman in almost a century, he suddenly entertained the notion of bringing this girl to his bedchamber.
Demendia snarled at her slave. “Bring us tea and cakes.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The servant bowed and hustled to the back of the laboratory, where Demendia kept a small kitchen.
Demendia turned her scowl on Milas. “Cletus, what are you doing here?” There was no mistaking the sharpness of her tone.
He bristled. “Do not call me by that name. He died three generations ago.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, My King.”
She’d grown too bold since befriending her ugly lizards, but he didn’t know how to rein her in, and that’s what troubled him most. “I am here to check your progress.”
“Their wings grow stronger,” she said. The dragons purred like oversized cats, rattling his insides. “They’ll be flying in a few months.”
“We don’t have a few months,” he snapped.
Her nostrils flared, and she moved her long neck like she was one of her dragons. “I told you this when you wanted to marry the little bitch. We are not ready for a war with the defenders.”
“Why can’t they fly now?” he demanded, suspecting their inability to fly had less to do with their wings than Demendia’s coddling. Though they’d initially been bred to raze armies, she had somehow turned his lethal machines into her pets.
“Their wings are still not strong enough to hold their weight.”
“Nonsense.” He snorted. “Your pet flew the other day.” And had nearly caused the entire city to shut down in panic. If his gen
erals hadn’t silenced the witnesses, his city would still be in an uproar.
“And he did not get far, did he?” Her cheeks reddened. “Their wings can only carry their weight a short distance.”
“Then make them stronger.”
She hissed like a rabid cat, black smoke pouring from her fingers. “I already told you.”
He would not let her see he was intimidated by her magic. “Make. Them. Stronger.”
“That will require darker magic.” She held out a hand, waggling her fingers. “I will need life water.”
He shrank from her, placing a hand across the heavy breastplate that concealed his precious vial. “Use what I gave you.”
“I can’t.” She stomped a foot like an emotional toddler.
He was tired of her tantrums. “Why?”
“Because your bride took mine.”
He jerked as if he’d been struck. “What? Impossible.” How did the stupid little bitch best such a powerful mage?
“She knocked me to the ground and stole my water.”
“And you’re just now telling me this?”
“I didn’t know it was her.” She threw up her hands, her voice turning shrill. “I thought it had fallen and rolled under the furniture. I’ve had every servant looking for it.”
“How do you know she took it?” He still had a hard time believing his foolish bride had been clever enough to steal Demendia’s life water. He looked at the golden wall sconce hanging behind her head, mesmerized by the candle’s flickering light, and remembered something his bride had said to him right before he departed. Be careful, or you will be an old man before you know it.
“She’s not as dumb as you think.”
His gaze snapped to Demendia. Perhaps she was right, and he’d underestimated Kyria, but he’d never admit it. His lover would use this against him every day for the next millennium.
“Perhaps it’s you who’s dumb for letting her steal it,” he countered. “With that life water, she can heal herself when I send mercenaries to kill her.”
Her brows drew together. “Not if they cut off her head. We know from our experiments, there is no coming back from that.”
“Not true,” he argued. “Our experiments came back.”
“As unholy monsters we had to burn,” she said. “They had no souls, Milas.”
Cut off her head? He was asking a lot of the mercenaries his generals had dug up from the dregs of society. He had a feeling they’d double their price if he asked them to decapitate the queen, too.
He shook a fist in her face, rage threatening to snap his last thread of sanity. “How could you let this happen?”
She let out a grating laugh. “I told you not to marry her, to let her sleep in your bedchamber.”
All other sounds except her obnoxious laughter faded. “Are you suggesting she found our supply?”
“She could have.”
She wouldn’t be so flippant if she thought their lives were in danger. He dropped his voice to a threatening whisper. “Only if the spell you cast was weak.”
“My spells are anything but weak. Not only must you speak Fae to enter the storage chamber, you must also be born of royal blood.”
“Then why are you concerned about her sleeping in my chamber?” He arched a brow. “Jealous?”
“Why would I be jealous of an ugly, scrawny Fae?”
He laughed. “Kyria is not ugly.” She might have Fae blood, be too tall and too lean, but she was a strikingly handsome woman.
Storm clouds brewed in Demendia’s eyes. “So now you’re on a first name basis?” Good, she was jealous. That meant she’d visit his chamber tonight and work extra hard at pleasing him.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Demendia.” He smiled at the pretty young servant when she set a tray of tea and cakes on the table. “Thank you, my dear.” She bowed and quickly hurried away, and he resisted the urge to follow her.
Demendia’s eyes narrowed. “Are you going to give me life water or not?”
“Here.” He pulled the vial from his breastplate and handed it to her. If he refused, he’d have to admit he doubted the safety of his water cache. “Take this. I will get some from storage. Do not ask for more.”
“But this is not enough,” she cried.
“It must be,” he snapped. “You must learn to conserve.” She went through far too much life water on wasted experiments.
She shot him an accusatory glare. “You have an entire barrel.”
“Only enough to last a few centuries,” he argued. It could very well take that long to defeat the defenders.
“We’ll have seized control of Periculi by then.”
He heaved a frustrated breath. “If you can get the dragons off the ground.”
“I won’t get them off the ground if I don’t have enough life water,” she complained, “but I can see it’s no use arguing with you.”
“No, it’s not.” Turning on his heel, he marched to the exit but not before he heard her calling him a selfish fool. For some reason, her servant also hearing bothered him more than anything.
KYRIA COULDN’T CONTROL the chattering of her teeth as she followed her defenders into a low, dark hut. She had to breathe through her mouth when they got inside. It smelled like sewage and smoke, and was sparsely furnished with an old table and a bed that had a wooden rail around it. Two elderly women rocked in chairs by the hearth as they deftly repaired old clothes despite their gnarled fingers.
“These are our seamstresses,” Quin whispered. “They have mended my socks more times than I can count.”
She’d never worn socks that had needed needlework. Her mother gave her clothes to the poor long before they fell apart. Not that she’d worn socks often, as there wasn’t nipple-biting cold where she lived.
Titus spoke loudly. “Mistresses, we have come to help.”
One old lady grunted, gesturing to a rusty pot on the floor.
Kyria grimaced. She’d thought her shit pot cleaning days were behind her. Much to her relief, Theron took it outside without a word. Not wanting to be completely useless, she swept and then helped Quin lay fresh rushes on the floor. She then helped Theron prepare a root and venison stew. Titus had gone to the community workshop after winning an argument with one of the old women that he needed to fix a crack in her chair. The old woman sat on the bed, sewing and rocking back and forth as if she was still in her chair.
After several hours, they dined with the old women, Kyria and her men sharing two bowls and two spoons between them. The stew was delicious, and Kyria had seconds, feeling like a glutton when the old women gave her sharp looks. She had been too sick with worry to eat much after her wedding and now that she finally felt safe, her appetite had returned tenfold.
They helped several more widows after that, one of them not much older than Kyria, with four small children in tow. Theron explained that she’d lost all four of her defenders to a rogue wave that had smashed into the cliff one night and swept them into the sea.
The thought of her defenders being taken from her in such a violent way made her stomach churn.
Titus didn’t stay with them long; he took broken toys and furniture to be repaired. It was a good thing, too, because his mood became more foul with each house they visited. Though he didn’t snap at her, he barked orders at Quin and Theron like a tyrant.
They stopped at a house with a sickly woman who had older children. Kyria was scrubbing pots caked in grease when Titus stomped inside and set down a newly mended chair. “What’s taking you so long?” he snapped. “We have two more houses to visit.”
“I don’t want to leave the sick children, Titus,” she said, nodding to the family members tucked in a bed beside the hearth, “or their mother.”
The poor woman was so sick, with heavy black circles framing her eyes, her parchment-thin skin draped over her bones, Kyria feared her illness was terminal.
“You need to hurry it up,” Titus grumbled.
She shared looks with Theron and Qu
in. They were tired of Titus’s mood, too.
When she heard a moan from the hearth, she looked at the mother. She didn’t cough like the two children but looked at the door as if expecting her long-dead defenders to return. She refused all offers of food and drink. Watching her mourn her men filled Kyria with such dread and sorrow, she felt as if a black cloud had encased her. Luckily the woman had two older daughters who helped with the household chores. Kyria feared those daughters would be burying their mother soon if she didn’t recover from her malady.
She thought about the vial of life water and wondered if the elixir could cure a broken heart. She hadn’t told her defenders about it yet. What would they say if she pulled it out and used it on the woman? The children had mild sniffles and would be fine, but their mother was ill enough to die.
She took aside the oldest daughter, a thin girl with light brown hair that hung down her back in a long braid. “If your mother worsens, please send for me,” she whispered, relieved when the child nodded.
Kyria felt as if her legs were encased in marble as she trudged toward the final house. Her hands and clothes smelled like onions, and her fingers stung from scrubbing pots in frigid water. But her physical discomforts were nothing compared to the sickness in her soul. These widows in their tiny huts suffered much hardship after losing their men. The soldiers sacrificed what little they had to make the widows comfortable. She didn’t understand why the king was so selfish with the defenders when they gave so much for his comfort.
Their last house was at the base of the snow-covered mountain. The thatch roof was so heavy with snow, it looked like it could buckle at any moment. Swearing, Titus grabbed a shovel, refusing to let them enter until he knocked some of it off. By the time he’d finished, she was so cold from the relentless wind, she couldn’t feel her face.
Inside was a snarling man with a complexion similar to hers and a wild mass of matted black braids and stumps for legs. He pushed a wheeled chair with his hands, the wheels squeaking and wobbling as he navigated across the rushes. A pretty redheaded woman fed twin dark-haired toddlers, one in her lap and the other sitting on top of a warped wooden table with mismatched chairs.
