Mazzulah knelt in front of Risk, her greater height still putting her over a head taller.
“What will you teach me?” Risk asked, hardly a breath.
When the god lifted her fingers to Risk’s cheek, she shuddered and tried to pull away. Mazzulah curled her hand, pinching Risk’s chin between her forefinger and thumb as she forced her to lift her head.
“What you crave above all else,” the god said simply. “When you are thankful to your sister for what she has done, but can’t stop the envy that grows in your heart. When you are lying in bed and the nightmares come and you burn with anger and hatred and even fear. When your inner beast seeks release . . . it is not strength that you crave, my girl. It is power. I will teach you what it means to be powerful, and then some. I will train you to be a god among those men. And when we are done here, no one will ever be able to harm you again—unless you let them.”
Inside her, something responded to those words.
A yearning that was greater than the fear she felt for the god. Greater than the feeling of being trapped once more. Greater than the exhaustion that plagued her.
Risk lifted her head of her own volition and stopped trying to pull away.
“I’m listening,” she said softly.
The smile that Mazzulah gave her . . . it was cold and cruel, and above all, it was full of promise.
“Let’s begin.”
Chapter 9
Dreams from Beyond
“The funny thing about guilt is that in running away from it, you tend to also run toward it.”
— Draeven Adelmar, rage thief, left-hand to the mad King of Norcasta
Draeven drifted in that place between wakefulness and sleep. It was his favorite place to be. Where the nightmares hadn’t yet come, but peace existed. When he was awake, it was only anger and guilt, but here, those dark thoughts couldn’t touch him. Taint him.
All too soon he found himself slipping down the slope of consciousness. The fuzziness ceased as a black void expanded beyond him.
He sighed. At least this nightmare came in the form of isolation . . .
Or so he thought.
“Lord Sunshine,” a voice said. Draeven’s back went straight as a rod. He blinked.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered to himself as a reminder. She wasn’t real. She was just a nightmare. A manifestation of his guilt conjured to torture him every night. Though, if she were real, Draeven suspected she would find great amusement in the fact that she was the source of his nightmares.
“I can assure you, my Lord Idiot, that I am quite real. It’s unfortunate that Lorraine is a null. I would have rather gone to her, all things considered, but you’ll do.”
Draeven clenched his fists, willing himself not to turn and look at her as he chanted under his breath.
A wisp of black smoke drifted over him, paralyzing him with fear.
And then, the woman herself stood there. As if conjured from the smoke, her pale body appeared. In his dream, her hair was still lavender and tied back in the braid she preferred. Her leathers were missing, though.
Instead, she wore nothing.
Draeven swallowed hard. His dreams had taken many forms over the months, but never this.
“Put some clothes on,” he uttered, looking away.
“Really, Draeven? I come back from the dead and it’s my nakedness that bothers you? You really are a bore.”
Draeven squeezed his eyes shut because now he understood. Instead of replaying the night she died, or his ascension, or even the night his own sister died—his mind had turned to a new torture.
It was enough to make him wonder if perhaps Quinn found a way to haunt him from death. That would be very much like her, to elicit fear even when she no longer existed in this world.
Cold scales slithered over his skin. Draeven jumped to his feet.
“Stop—” he said. The snake wound itself over his shoulders and refused to be shaken. Draeven froze.
“You’re still afraid of him? Hm. Well, at least there’s that. You two are going to be close companions for the next little while until I can return.”
“Stop,” Draeven said again. “You’re not real. You can’t be. I saw what was left of your body. You are dead. We burned you. We mourned for you, but this—this is my own mind. I didn’t mean to get you killed. I never thought—”
“You didn’t kill me, Draeven. Neither did Lazarus, though I’m sure the fool doesn’t see it himself. If anything, I got myself killed.”
Draeven paused in his ramblings, and then he looked. He really looked.
Her eyes were crystal clear as ever, and just as cruel as they’d always been. Her cheekbones were sharper, as if cut from glass, and on her lips, a wicked grin sat. She’d clothed herself, but not in the leathers he remembered. Instead, she donned two black pieces of fabric. One for each of her shoulders. On her waist, a silver belt held them in place.
“I-I don’t know what to say. I can’t see how you’re possibly alive, but . . . I don’t see how you could come from my mind either.”
One corner of Quinn’s mouth twisted. She lifted her hand and extended a single slip of parchment toward him.
“I can prove it, Draeven. And while I don’t have time to explain the details—I am back. Not alive, per se . . . but not dead either. Risk walked into the dark realm and made a deal with Mazzulah. We both did. I have to see that through, and then I will return.”
Draeven opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t know what to say, but he took the letter between his hands, the parchment rough against his fingers.
“If you’re real, why did you come to me? Why not Lazarus?” he demanded of her.
The smirk dropped from her lips and her face became unreadable.
“Because he can’t know that I’ve returned. Not yet. But he does need to know that N’skara has turned against him. They’ve allied with Triene. I will handle my homeland, but you need to prepare. Triene is making moves for war—and you might be the hand that feeds—but I am not there, which means you also need to become the hand that strikes.”
“Quinn . . .” Draeven started. “Even if this is true—Lazarus is not what you remember. He is not who you remember because you died. He doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust anyone.”
“He doesn’t need to,” Quinn replied. “He just needs to be ready because we have to win this war. Failure is not an option, Draeven. Prepare yourself. Talk to Lorraine. But do not let this get back to him. I am coming home, but he can’t be distracted by my absence right now.”
“What part of he doesn’t trust anyone do you not understand—”
“Figure it out,” she replied, her voice clipped. “We all have a role to play here. You’re feeling guilty about my death? Make it up to me and be sure that the Ciseans and the Ilvans have not also turned. Find out about Bangratas and Jibreal. And for the love of Forseya, stop being a neuken.”
The subtle way in which she called him an idiot in his own native language made Draeven think. If he wouldn’t be surprised to find out she found a way to torture him from the afterlife, perhaps she really did find a way to come back.