“Can your spies intercept her?” Draeven asked.
“No,” Dominicus said. “She is too powerful. The few that have tried wound up dead by their own volition. I’ve told the one’s reporting to keep their distance and make me aware if there’s any new developments.”
Draeven nodded. It was all they could do. If Amelia was in bed with Triene, it explained a great deal. It also meant there was no taking her out. Not until she left their territory.
“And Lord Northcott?” Draeven prompted, as he started to walk down the empty hallway. Dominicus fell in step.
“Settling in the North. Dissension from the locals has lessened over his rule. He’s not kind, but neither is he cruel. He’s working to build businesses up and increase trade. He wants Dumas to rival Leone for trade, and his ambition is working in our favor for the moment.”
That was better than Draeven expected. He’d let the wealthy lord leave with his life and promise of more power should he fall in line. It pleased him that it seems Northcott did just that.
Draeven detested having to kill men because their flaws got the better of them, and frankly, he couldn’t afford to after the massacre. The other regions were already struggling enough with their lords disposed. Norcasta was in a state of turmoil that he desperately needed to stabilize if what Dominicus said about Amelia Reinhart was true.
“Has Lazarus resurfaced?”
Draeven tensed at the question.
“No,” his answer was curt.
“It’s been a month,” Dominicus said.
“I know.”
“Norcasta is not secure. We took this country, and the heirs are nearly gone. Slavery is ending because of him and the people rejoice in the streets because their old masters are dead. This is when we should be creating our houses to ensure the peace—”
“I know,” Draeven said again, then sighed.
“How long is he going to grieve her?” There was an edge of frustration in his tone that Draeven understood well.
“I’m not sure grieving is all he’s doing.”
Dominicus narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“While I don’t understand it, I think that Lazarus loved her more than he knew. More than he should have. When I told him what happened to her, I saw the change. I think the souls are in control, and I think they want blood for what’s been done.”
“If he wanted blood, why has he stayed away?” Dominicus asked.
The problem was that Draeven did not know.
He wasn’t sure himself, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more. He could not convince himself this was simply grief—or that this was the worst of what would come from it.
“I can’t answer that,” Draeven said quietly. “I wish I could.”
Dominicus looked away, his lips pressing together in a tight line.
“How do we expect people to fall in line when their king is nowhere to be found?”
“We show them that House Fierté is strong,” came another voice. Higher pitched and chiding in a way that only one person could be.
Both Draeven and Dominicus turned to the stewardess of the palace.
“Lorraine,” Dominicus said, his tone changing instantly. “We were just—” A softness entered it, followed by a note of apology. It was no secret that Lorraine struggled with Quinn’s death. Like Lazarus, she didn’t want to believe it. Unlike him, she helped burn the other woman’s remains on a pyre, held vigil from sundown to sunup, and kept going.
“I know what you were discussing,” Lorraine said, her own voice terse. While she’d moved on physically, Draeven suspected the dark circles beneath her eyes had more to do with the girl’s loss than her duties in the palace. “Our king will return when he is well and ready. Meanwhile, that bitch is going to cause a problem. It is our job to ensure that House Fierté remains strong. The best way to do that is to show the people we are.” Draeven could believe it; the way she spoke and the harsh lines of her face. Her brown and gray hair was pulled back in a tight braid. She might be struggling the same as all of them, but she was resilient. “Lazarus is indisposed, but that doesn’t mean that his left-hand can’t begin assigning lordship. I will write the letters myself if I must, and if our king is angry with the decision, he can take it up with me when he is back.”
“I think you’re right,” Draeven said slowly. “We’ve given him time and all we can do until he’s ready is hold together his empire. Dominicus, I want a list of recommendations from you by the end of day. It’s time we start filling positions. Quinn might be gone, but House Fierté will survive.”
Lorraine’s eyes were hard as she nodded. “The palace will need to reopen to visitors. I’ll make arrangements once the appointments are done.”
And with that, Lorraine left, leaving them to their work.
“She’s a strong woman,” Draeven remarked when she was far enough away that he was sure he wouldn’t have burned supper for the comment.
“She has to be to put up with us,” Dominicus said.
Draeven cracked a grin, but it felt hollow even as he did it.
He’d said that House Fierté would survive. He meant it, but he didn’t say in what state it would be when all was said and done.
As much as he had feared who Lazarus was becoming with her, Draeven now feared what he would become without her.
Chapter 3
The Bargain
“Nothing is ever truly free, for freedom is an illusion unto itself.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, dead
Many days had passed since that first whisper of her name on the wind.
The dark sun rose and fell in the midnight sky.
The blood moon waxed and waned.
Quinn sat atop the dais beside the dark god, Mazzulah, waiting for her sister to finish the climb. It was a long way from the realm of the living to that of the dead, and only those strong enough would survive it without dying themselves.
“She draws near,” Mazzulah said in his male form. His voice was the embers of flame. It felt like cold whispers across heated skin. Silk and seduction and, above all, darkness.
Lovely. Everything about the dark god was as lovely as it was cruel.
“You say she’s returned for me, but I’ve never heard of a dead man rising.” She didn’t ask a question outwardly, but the god’s plum-colored lips still curled in a smile.
“You are no man, and the dead do not rise.” It was all Mazzulah said. The god loved to play in words, just as Lazarus had, and as Quinn had learned to.
The sound of breathing and the broken whisper of her name drew both their attention.
“Quinn,” her sister said as she heaved herself over the last step and onto the dais. To her credit, she did not collapse to her knees, though they shook violently.
“You came for me,” Quinn said, moving like she was going to stand. Her body dissipated into shadows and smoke, reforming in front of Risk.
Her sister reached for her, as if she could not believe her eyes.
Chilled hands touched Quinn’s cheeks, but they felt warm on the dead woman’s skin. When she’d died, her soul had come here, and the cold that she’d always clung to became all there was. All she was.