It would be so easy, though, and it would further Nadya’s mission. All it would take would be another icy claw into the girl’s heart, or a stronger jolt of lightning. But the darkness lingered and Nadya feared what would happen if she pulled on it.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Nadya said.
She was expecting relief, but what she received was a wad of spit that landed on her mask.
“Pathetic,” the girl said, pain slurring her speech.
Nadya straightened. Felicíja’s guard and a figure in a chilling mask that could only be a Vulture began to move toward them. It must have been clear she was backing off.
A hand brushed her arm. The dark echo reacted to the touch—Malachiasz—and Nadya’s knees grew weak. She was shoved forward; knocked to her knees before the girl.
The girl who had blood dripping from her mouth, who stared at Nadya with eyes that were already dimming. A spike of iron was driven into her chest. As Nadya stared at it, the spike formed into the shape of a szitelka, then the girl pitched forward, dead.
Her stomach roiled as her vision tunneled. No. Mercy, she was going to give the girl mercy.
It took everything in her not to turn to Malachiasz. The girl’s guard reached them along with the Vulture. Neither of them said anything. The flurry of activity would have masked what had happened. What Malachiasz had done instead of Nadya.
She finally glared at him. He raised an eyebrow at her. There was blood on his fingertips.
Blood dripped from Nadya’s nose.
One day in this cursed city and she was already tired of the sight of blood.
Heat coursed through her veins. What point had killing the girl served? She dropped her eyes before someone noticed but not before shaking her head at him.
Idiot.
“You expected more from a Tranavian abomination?” Marzenya’s voice was faint, as though coming through a fog. It sounded unbelievably sly, but there was another thread to her voice Nadya had never heard before: rage. “You should have killed the bitch yourself. On your own.”
A warning. Attempting to spare another Tranavian and Nadya glancing against Malachiasz’s power—unintentional as it had been—had sparked Marzenya’s ire. Before the servants came to collect the body, Nadya stalked out of the arena.
SEREFIN
MELESKI
“What was that?” Ostyia asked, her eye wide.
Serefin shook his head. It had been ruthless, exactly what the Tranavian court was expecting. But more interesting, some elegance to her movements, innovation in her magic …
Ostyia perched on the arm of his chair. “No one uses elemental magic like that.”
How had this girl not been drafted into the army? Why had she not joined of her own volition? She was talented, quick, relentless, with an arsenal of spells Serefin had never seen before. He knew elemental spells were possible with blood magic, but no one ever used them because they were too difficult. It was manipulating magic in a way that was changing the power at its basest element. Blood magic drew from a person’s innate ability and manifested in whatever way it was needed, but changing it to the elements—another base, another fundamental item in creation—was incredibly difficult.
Where had this girl been hiding?
“Żaneta is not going to be happy,” Ostyia commented.
“She’ll relish having real competition.”
There was a flurry of activity in the arena and Serefin leaned over the railing. Two masked Vultures were carting off Felicíja’s body.
Horror rippled through him and he exchanged a glance with Ostyia. What were they doing?
He dimly felt Ostyia’s touch on his arm. He shouldn’t be staring; it shouldn’t be a sight he found uncomfortable. But it was another piece of the puzzle, another step closer. He hoped it wasn’t coming too late.
21
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Silence and fear; those who worship the god Zlatek know that above all else, those two things are paramount.
—Codex of the Divine, 55:19
A healer ran after Nadya, fussing after her wounds—her entire body felt like it was on fire and her nose hadn’t stopped bleeding—but she waved her away. She could handle it herself and she had to get out of this arena.
She couldn’t stomach the stench of death any longer.
Malachiasz trailed behind her, silent. If he spoke, she was going to kill him, and he seemed to sense that.
They reached the hallway that led to her chambers. It was empty, devoid of servants or other participants who were boarding in this wing of the palace. She couldn’t wait any longer.
She moved without warning, slamming him into the wall, her forearm against his throat, szitelka drawn and pressed against his side.
He raised both hands in a sign of surrender, lifting one farther to unhook the mask from his face. It was made of iron and covered his mouth, stopping just where his tattoos started on the bridge of his nose.
“There was no need for you to interfere,” she said, her voice a snarl.
He swallowed, his pale stare icing over. “Were you going to kill her yourself?”
She pressed up harder on his windpipe. “I can handle myself,” she replied through clenched teeth. “Understand?”
“Perfectly,” he wheezed.
She released the pressure on his throat but didn’t pull away or sheathe her szitelka. “If anyone saw you—”
He cut her off, voice low. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private for this discussion, shall we?”
His expression was carefully blank. Had she angered him with her outburst? Good. He deserved it. He couldn’t place the whole plan’s success on her and then not trust her to see through what was necessary.
Nadya kicked the door to her chambers closed after they entered. She begrudgingly sheathed her szitelka.
“You murdered her.”
He was insufferably calm. “You hesitated. That was a duel to the death, there was no room for anything else.”
“You’re right, silly me, I forgot that Tranavians are all bloodthirsty with no capability of understanding concepts of mercy, thank you for reminding me.”
Malachiasz blinked. Hurt flickered across his face and he turned away. Nadya thought seeing one of her jabs land would feel good, but it just made her more frustrated. How dare he play the victim here?
She grabbed his arm, yanking him back around to face her. “I did not need you to take matters into your hands. If anyone saw you—”
“Yet no one did. Yet here we are. Yet here you stand with a seat next to the High Prince at dinner this evening.”
“You can’t talk your way out of this. Her blood is on your hands, not mine.” She leaned closer to him.
“I can live with that. You’re trying to paint it as something it’s not.”
“It was murder.”
“She was a slavhka, raised from birth to slaughter Kalyazi, and as necessary, other Tranavians.”
“That doesn’t make her a monster!”
“We’re all monsters, Nadya,” Malachiasz said, his voice gaining a few tangled chords of chaos. “Some of us just hide it better than others.”
Now she was aware of just how close they were, her hand still clutching his arm. His gaze strayed to her lips. She managed to keep from blushing as she let go and stepped away—she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still fluster her while she was angry.