by Leigh Kelsey
Ismene snarled a wordless sound of rage, and Maia went unnaturally still in the way only the fae could freeze, fear making her a statue at her aunt’s dominance.
Gasping down breath when her lungs demanded she take air, Maia shook, only fear keeping her net around Kheir. She didn’t dare speak.
“Ananke Sanvillius,” Ismene replied slowly, masking her fury with a dismissive tone, “is my sister. But as long as Maia lives here, in Vassalaer, I am her queen.”
“Her handler, you mean,” Kheir short back, nothing but understanding and rage in his eyes when they drifted to Maia. She stopped breathing, stopped feeling anything except the sensation of his mind shoving up against her net of threads and magic. “She’s not your niece, just a tool—a thing you use when it benefits you.”
Maia had often thought those exact words, but it burned to hear them said by someone else.
Ismene opened her mouth to shoot him down, but Kheir hurled the next words at her as if they’d been locked up inside him for both these meetings, just waiting to erupt. His eyes were molten chocolate, his power rumbling through Maia’s consciousness, through her soul, through the whole palace. “I know what you did. I know about the bombs you set on your own people on Old Year’s Night three years ago, killing your own daughter, and I know about the traps you laid on Wylnarren, a city of your own sister’s empire. The traps that helped their enemies sack the city.” Kheir took a rough breath, his beautiful voice like jagged glass, and Maia’s grip on his mind slackened in shock.
Lying—he was lying. He had to be. What he suggested…
“The Sapphire Knight destroyed festival square on Old Year’s Night,” Maia breathed, reeling from his lies.
Kheir was kind—noble. Why would he lie about something like this, a night that had killed over seventy Vassalians? And the defeat of Wylnarren … it was legendary. It had been carnage. But that great city near the Hunchback Hills in their neighbouring empire had fallen because its Lord and Lady had failed, because they acted rashly—not because Ismene had tampered with the traps around the city. “You’re wrong.” She barely felt her lips as she spoke, a horrible numbness overtaking her.
“You’re wrong,” Prince Kheir disagreed, equal parts steel and softness. He met her gaze and held it, sympathy and condemnation in those warm eyes. Her stomach roiled, bile splashing the back of her throat. “The Sainsan lords circulated false rumours that the queen and her consort—your mother and father—would visit Wylnarren that day. Queen Ismene tried not to topple the lord and lady of Wylnarren, but the queen and consort. She wanted your parents dead, Maia. She still does, I’d bet.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ismene said with a scoff, unruffled by his accusations. Her beautiful, cold face held nothing but patronising disbelief. “Why would I try to kill my own sister, three months after I signed the first peace agreement nonetheless?”
“Because you’re crafty, and cunning, and old enough to know how to play these games,” Kheir gritted out.
Rage burning a path through her cold at his lies, Maia resumed her song, strengthening her net where he’d unravelled it, gaining a foothold in Kheir’s mind. She dove right for a gaping hole where he’d eaten through her power, and realised the trap too late.
Pain cracked like a whip through her mind, bright and merciless, and she cried out, flinching back from the claws that sank into her magic, holding her there.
“I don’t want to do this,” Kheir said sadly, his gaze moving from Maia to Ismene, hardening as they met the queen. “But unless you release me from this room, I’ll crush your niece’s mind like she planned to crush mine.”
Like chasm he would. Nevermind that she could feel his guilt at his actions, vast enough to smother him. Maia wrenched hard, twisting her song into a scream, and her power hit Kheir’s magic like a battering ram. The claws ripped free of her mind, leaving gouges in her power, weak spots that pulsed with pain. But she gripped his mind in her net hard enough to weaken him, and got the hell out of there, panting hard when she returned to her own mind, her own body.
“I can’t snare him,” she choked out, pressing a hand to her head where pain pounded. Warm blood rolled down her lips, dripping from her nose. “He’s too powerful.”
“Try again,” Ismene seethed, giving her a sharp look that blurred in Maia’s vision.
She panted, blood rolling onto her dress and dizziness swirling the opulent room into a mass of emerald and moss. “I can’t.”
“You can,” the queen argued.
But when Maia sent her magic striking into Prince Kheir’s mind, she met a shield of barbs and arrows. And gored her magic on their razor edges.
She screamed through clenched teeth, scrambling away from those shards of vicious steel.
“Fine,” Ismene huffed. She gave the guards a look as Kheir shoved to his feet, the prince so weak after fighting Maia’s power that he wavered. His power might have been strong enough to keep her out, but he was physically shaky, and it was far too easy for slimy old Erren to incapacitate him. Maia winced at how his head lolled, at her own hand in his suffering to come as Ismene said, “Lock him below. Maybe he’ll be more amenable to our desires after a few weeks rotting in the dungeons.”
Maia watched them drag him out, her heart a tight ball of pain in her chest and her head pounding with a fierce ache. The forest at the bottom of her soul, usually full of light and magic, felt like a withered winter glade, its branches bare and skeletal.
“You’ve disappointed me, Maia,” the queen said. “Go, and consider how to better serve me tomorrow.”
Maia didn’t need telling twice. She stumbled to her feet, ignoring the way the world spun, and knew that no amount of drinking or dancing would blur the past hour from her mind.
Instead, she went to the healer’s hall several floors above, sat on a hard bed long enough to get assessed—injured but already healing thanks to her fae magic—and climbed up to her room to change from her dress to a pair of trousers and a loose top. Without looking back, she fled the palace for her little attic room in the Library of Vennh. At least there, nobody would ask her to kill a prince.
Chapter Nine
Maia was still wound up and shaking by the time she reached the arts quarter, so she walked right past the library and headed to the river, needing its sharp wind and clarity. Her body pulsed with pain, especially her head and the place where her magic sat in her core, and dizziness continued to blur through her. But it was starting to fade with every deep breath of bracing air, and if she was lucky, she’d be thinking clearly again by the time she returned to the palace.
She passed the Baton and Paintbrush, loud voices already spilling out of the pub’s warped windows despite it only being evening. Someone was singing a raucous song about a man called Willie that would have enticed Maia inside to learn every word any other day. But not tonight. No, she didn’t want humour. She wanted … she just wanted.
She wanted the prince’s words to stop spinning around her mind, wanted her body to stop aching, wanted to stop dreading the torture awaiting her as punishment for failing Ismene, wanted her magic to be something more than the spooked animal it now was, hiding within her. More than anything, she wanted her actions to be her own, not decided by a queen who only cared about her existence when she could get something from Maia. And deep in the secret parts of her mind that she usually kept hidden even from herself, she wanted to be free.
Some days, especially days like today, she wanted her snaresong to die in her throat. She didn’t care that it was an intrinsic part of her; right now she wanted it cut out, like a rotting bit of flesh, so the rest of her might be spared.
She was too caught up in her thoughts, marching mindlessly across Sorvauw Bridge’s pale stones, the biting air off the water and the healer’s tonic in her system sharpening her mind.
Maia slammed hard into a body of solid strength and muscle, and bounced back, tumbling through the air—but a strong hand caught her shoulder and set her back on her feet
before her body could hit the huge blocks of stone that made up the bridge.
“Sorry,” Maia exhaled shakily, her body still braced for collision, for pain. She’d learned, many years ago, how to ready herself for a sudden crash of pain, and she fell easily into that instinct now. “I wasn’t paying … attention…” she trailed off when she lifted her head and saw who’d righted her, who she’d run into.
Azrail. Mr Super Hot and Tempting from the library. The most handsome, beautiful man Maia had ever seen in her twenty-four years of existence. And that was before she’d seen him in a sleeveless black shirt, with sweat darkening a strip down the middle and shining on the black tattoos scrolling down his arms. The enticing sheen coated his muscular shoulders like sensual oil, rolling down his forearms, and disappearing beneath the leather bands he had around each wrist.
Her mouth watered. Holy shit.
“It’s you,” Azrail remarked, a smile splitting his golden face, lighting his blue eyes until they shone like sapphires. Saints, he was handsome. Maia almost sighed, almost wilted against him. “From the library.”
“Yes,” Maia replied uselessly, still blinking at his saint-worthy body in shock. Azrail released her shoulder and took a step back, giving her a blinding smile as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose grey pants. Don’t look at his crotch, she warned herself. Don’t you even dare.
“Wait,” she blurted, recovering her wits and blinking until her eyes stopped being so glazed with lust, “you noticed me?”
Azrail snorted, leaning back against the pale bridge wall and giving her a wry look. “Did I notice the most beautiful girl in the library? Of course I did.”
Maia blinked. Blushed. And then remembered she wasn’t a blushing school girl with her first boyfriend. “You charmer,” she accused, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a grin.
“Guilty,” he replied, his eyes full of amusement and heat, elbows propped on the wall behind him, all casual grace and sensuality. “I’m Azrail.”
“Maia,” she replied, and wondered if she should have lied only when the name hovered between them. But there were enough people called Maia in Vassalaer that he didn’t mark her for a princess. No, he thought he already knew who she was: a regular citizen who worked at the library, someone like him, a commoner.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maia,” he said smoothly, and caught her hand, bowing over it like a courtly lord to press a kiss to her knuckles. Saints, her skin tingled wherever his lips brushed, her heart skittering inside her chest. With one touch, he’d reduced her to a blushing virgin.
She gave him a knowing look. He returned it with a shameless grin.
Conversations hummed and silverware tinkled below them as a restaurant barge glided under the bridge. Silence stretched between Maia and Azrail, but not awkwardly, more a pause they used to appreciate one another.
“Do you always run on this bridge at this time of day?” Maia asked, fumbling for something to say. Her mind was a constant refrain of he’s here, he’s talking to you, he thinks you’re beautiful. And he didn’t know she was a princess, so he stood nothing to gain by flattery. Unlike the lords and nobles who complimented her, Azrail was being genuine.
“Why?” He grinned, his face utterly devastating with that amused light in his eyes, that cocky curve to his mouth. “You planning to come back and ogle me tomorrow?”
Yes. “No,” Maia scoffed, fiddling with the ends of her silver hair as the river wind set about matting it into knots. “You think pretty highly of yourself, Azrail…”
“Just Azrail,” he replied, with a secretive smile. Fair enough; Maia wasn’t about to tell him her own surname, either. “And yes, most nights I cross the bridge on my route.” He gave her a look beneath his dark lashes. “I wouldn’t be opposed to running into you again tomorrow. Literally, if you must.”
Maia rolled her eyes, ignoring the flutter in her belly. “That was an accident.”
“I enjoyed it immensely,” Azrail replied, sapphire eyes dancing. “Certain parts of you pressed into certain parts of me, and it was not a terrible sensation.”
Outrage and anger rushed to her face in the form of a dark blush. “You fucking cad.”
“Guilty,” he replied, leaning lazily against the bridge and giving her a seductive look. Damn him, it was working.
A sudden impulse struck: to grab his face and kiss him hard, pouring every ounce of herself into it, and Maia shook with the effort it took to fight it.
“You really do have a high opinion of yourself,” she breathed, even as her hands twitched, desperate to grab him. Her heart pounded hard, blood rushing in her ears and dulling the cries of the gulls.
“You can’t take your eyes off me, and you couldn’t when we ran across each other at the library.” Azrail’s smirk seemed to be a permanent fixture on his handsome face, oozing male satisfaction. “But don’t worry, Maia, it’s very much mutual.”
Oh, the sound of her name on his tongue … she was going to swoon. Saints damn it all to the chasm and back, she was going to swoon and there was nothing she could do about it. But she wouldn’t let him know that.
“I thought you’d be sweeter,” she said with honey-wrapped venom, a shiver moving through her at the flash of challenge that lit his eyes. “A nice, studious man. Even if you do flirt with every librarian in sight.”
“That’s not true,” he said with a deep scowl cutting his tanned face, emphasising the angles and arches of his features. “I’ve never once tried to charm Dita.”
Maia snorted. Loudly. But instead of judging the sound, Azrail seemed even more delighted by her, leaning back against the bridge wall and gliding a sultry stare down her body. “I don’t think Dita’s capable of being charmed,” she said, locking her body against a deep shudder.
“She threatened to hang me off the highest spire of the library building for reading out loud once,” he said conspiratorially.
“That’s nothing,” Maia scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the wall beside him, watching a carriage rattle its way down the bridge road. “I once shelved a book about the saints’ circles in the philosophy section by mistake. She made me sweep every floor in the library for a week. All twelve floors! All seven days!”
“Ouch,” Azrail replied, and even his wince was attractive. And when the wind caught his wavy black hair, brushing it over his forehead … he was so handsome it could kill her. “You win.”
“I usually do,” Maia replied smugly.
Again that look of a challenge accepted crossed his face. “I warn you, Maia, I’m accustomed to winning, too.” His sapphire eyes were exceptionally dark, his pupils dilated. Maia’s chest heaved as she drew a breath, and his eyes darted to it, and then to her lips, his own tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
Claim him, consume him, a desperate instinct raged inside her.
“Then we’d better not get into any competitions,” she replied, her breath catching at the slow smile he gave her. Oh, he was definitely trying to seduce her. Trying, and succeeding.
As if he battled the same force as Maia, as if an inner voice raged at him to claim her, too, he surged forward suddenly. Maia groaned, a sound she couldn’t control, as his hot palm rasped along her cheek and his mouth slammed into hers. It was a desperate clash of lips, a kiss of the starving and desperate, and Maia couldn’t catch her breath. She didn’t even attempt to stop her palms flattening to his thin, sweat soaked shirt, feeling the heat and beating heart of him. Power rumbled through his veins, making her own spark as she moaned.
Saints—saints, she’d never been kissed like this before.
Azrail drew back with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes glazed, dark. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” Maia agreed—and hauled him back to her mouth, her tongue brushing his and sending lightning sparks through her senses. She was more awake than she’d ever been, her skin tingling, her heart beating frighteningly, exhilaratingly fast in her chest.
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She was shivery when she finally staggered back against the stone railing, lifting a finger to her swollen lips. “Are you in the habit of kissing strangers?” she asked in a thick voice, even though she’d kissed her fair share of strangers herself at Silvan’s.
Azrail laughed, a low, velvet sound that thrummed with seduction. “I’m not sure I’ve ever kissed anyone like that before, beautiful.”
Maia swallowed, and just stared at him, her chest heaving, her stomach full of butterflies. She wanted, inexplicably, to grin, and couldn’t hold it back. Azrail laughed, smiling too.
“I’d better continue with my run,” he said after a moment, his voice low and sapphire eyes still hooded, “or I’ll be late home. I’ll see you again, Maia.”
“Do you have a family?” she asked, suddenly not wanting him to leave. He was old enough to have a wife and children at home, but he held up his hand to show her the absence of a ring. She didn’t let her grin grow further, even if it was a battle—but then her eyes snagged on the place where the leather band had slipped up his sweaty wrist, exposing a slashed curve of a scar.
A crescent moon scar.
Maia narrowed her eyes, her heart hurling itself into her ribs. A coincidence surely. It had to be. There was no way the man she’d been eyeing for over six months at the Library of Vennh was the Sapphire Knight. But the scar was exactly as the accounts said, and his face … while not an identical match, he bore more than a passing resemblance to the second sketch, the smirking man with troubled blue eyes.
