Trix positively beamed at him. “Told you he was brighter than he seemed,” she said to Kade.
It appeared Sev’s reputation of mild-mannered stupidity preceded him—even if this woman had seen through the ruse. Kade was looking at him with unflattering surprise, as if he’d truly thought Sev were some kind of simpleton.
“What’s it to you if I’m smart or not? What do you want from me?” Sev asked Trix.
She twisted her lips thoughtfully. “I could make good use of a soldier.”
Sev gritted his teeth, the events of the night starting to catch up with him. “For what? What use is a soldier to a bondservant?”
“There are places a bondservant cannot go and things a bondservant cannot access.”
Sev frowned at her. “Like?”
“Like duty rosters, supply lists, weapons . . . ,” she clarified with an airy wave of the hand.
“What if I refuse?”
“Give us a moment, won’t you, Kade?” she said sweetly, and after a breath of hesitation, Kade stomped off into the darkness.
“I thought I made myself clear, soldier,” she said conversationally, turning back to Sev. “Whether you’re an animage or not, I can certainly make you look like one. Cross me, and you’ll have every critter in this forest on your heels. I could make those llamas purr if I wanted to—and they’d do it just for you. They’re a superstitious lot, soldiers are, and you’d hardly be the first person thrown into bondage without proper proof. And when they come for you, I’ll make sure you’re caught with the captain’s gold, silver, and silks, too—just to be certain.”
Sev clenched his fists, his heart thumping in his ears.
“Besides,” she added softly, all hint of threat gone, “you want a way out, and I’m your best chance. Help me, and I’ll help you—that’s a promise, Sevro.”
Sev’s pulse fluttered as he replayed her words. He knew Trix could do all she’d promised—she’d shown him that tonight. Worse, soldiers were the type to act first, think later—and if they suspected he was an animage for even a second, there’d be no going back for him. Add stealing from the captain into the mix . . .
Sev did want a way out. He felt no love or loyalty to the empire or their cause, but he still wasn’t exactly sure how she could be the one to set him free. Unless . . .
“Help you with what?” Sev asked, unease building inside his chest. “What’s your goal?”
Trix smiled warmly at him. “To bring these filthy empire assassins down from the inside, of course.”
It was the death of her mother that ended us. Let me be more specific. It was the death of that regicide-committing, whorehouse-dwelling usurper queen regent that ended us.
- CHAPTER 8 -
VERONYKA
VERONYKA WENT LIMP IN Val’s arms.
Xephyra was dead.
“I did it for your own good,” Val was saying, panting slightly from the effort of holding Veronyka away from Xephyra. “We’ll start over. We’ll get two new eggs and do this together, so I can guide you properly. You weren’t ready—it’s not your fault this happened.”
Veronyka stepped back from her, the silence of the severed bond echoing in her mind. The spot in her heart where Xephyra had burned bright was now a cold, hard lump. With every breath she took, the knot in her chest grew tighter, heavier, until she thought she might suffocate under it.
“You’re right,” Veronyka said, her voice utterly lifeless. Like Xephyra.
Val visibly relaxed, opening her mouth to speak, but Veronyka continued. “It’s not my fault—it’s your fault. You did this. You murdered her!” she finished with a scream. The words ripped from her throat, leaving a raw track of fiery agony in their wake. Her face crumpled, and she had to force breath in and out of her lungs. Xephyra is dead. Xephyra is dead.
And Val had killed her.
“I will never,” she continued raggedly, throat tight with unshed tears, “ever,” she added, needing stronger, better words, but unable to find them in the maelstrom of her mind, “forgive you for this.”
Her hands were shaking. She wanted to hit Val, to make her hurt, but what she did instead was turn away and heave onto the dirt floor at her feet. Painful spasms racked her body, but she hadn’t eaten much that day, and nothing came out except acid regret.
The next thing she knew, Val’s arm was against her back, rubbing circles there. Comforting her.
“Phoenixes died all the time in ancient Pyra, Veronyka,” she said soothingly. “In training, in war, in sacrificial fire dives that set cities ablaze. It’s the animage, the Rider, that matters. Xephyra was just an animal.”
Just an animal. Veronyka wanted to turn around and spit in her face, but she couldn’t make her body move. Xephyra had been more than “just an animal”—more than just a bondmate. She had been Veronyka’s future, her whole world, shattered in an instant.
The last time her sister had tried to “comfort” her had been in the wake of their maiora’s murder.
They’d been running across tenement rooftops and down narrow alleys, until the screams and shouts of the mob faded into distant background noise and then into nothing. Veronyka had finally jerked her arm out of Val’s grip.
“Where are they taking her?”
“To the stars,” Val had said, looking up at the blue sky, where nothing but sunlight shone. It was strange for Veronyka to hear those words from Val when it was her maiora who had taught her that after death the soul rose up into the sky to live among the stars, to be Axura’s light in the darkness of night, where she could not shine.
“Does that mean . . . ? Is she . . . ? Is she . . . ?” Veronyka had faltered, not wanting to know the truth, but needing to hear it all the same.
“She is dead, xe Nyka.”
“Are you sure?” Veronyka whispered, tears blurring her vision at the realization that she’d abandoned her grandmother to that fate. When Val didn’t answer, she’d taken it as an affirmation. “But who will burn her body?”
Val had knelt in front of her then. “Do not cry for the dead,” she’d said, stoic as ever as she’d mopped her sister’s wet face. “Cry for the living—cry for us. Things will be harder from here on out.”
“But . . .”
“Soldiers die all the time, Nyka, and no matter how much she liked to play nursemaid, your maiora was a soldier. We survived. That’s what matters. It’s what she would have wanted.”
Now, in this cold cabin, rage reared up inside Veronyka. Val knew the motions, understood the gestures and the words that were expected, but she performed them like a poor player reciting an epic poem—the moves studied and unnatural.
Val had never shed a tear, said a prayer, or even spoken fondly of their grandmother. Sometimes Veronyka wondered if it was because she wasn’t technically related to them. Their “grandmother” had been their mother’s mentor and dearest friend, and as the war had grown desperate, she had sworn to protect Val and Veronyka if the worst should happen. It had—both of their parents had died during the Last Battle of the Blood War.