Storm of the Seven Sins, page 3
“You don’t see everything that’s transpired in the past twenty-four hours as enough fodder to unite with Minneska?” I demand, in an effort to avert disaster. “Are you that stubborn?”
Sebastían’s lips quirk, as if my anger amuses him. “It’s not stubbornness, Eva. It’s my responsibility…and I’d like to think it would be your pleasure, as well. Certainly, I’ve never suffered any complaints.”
A red-hot blush heats my cheeks and, seeing it, Sebastían’s lips curve. As if his smile’s evoked it, I remember how I called for aid when the Executor cornered me, and how his panther answered, charging up the stairs to protect me. A tie that I don’t understand binds us, an uncomfortable intimacy not born of what I want but who I am…and who he is, as well.
At the sight of my blush, Ari steps forward, palming the hilt of his dagur. “That,” he says, the edge of each word as sharp as his blade, “is over the line.”
A low rumble rises in Sebastían’s chest: his panther’s warning growl. “Hold your tongue, familiar, lest you lose it.”
My embarrassment fades, replaced by indignation. “Don’t speak to him that—” I begin, but Ari cuts me off, his tone smooth and deadly.
“Are you threatening me, Sebastían Pardúr, in front of witnesses? Because I don’t need Eva to fight my battles for me. And nothing would please me more than to prove it.”
Sebastían braces his hands on the table and pushes to his feet. “How dare you!”
“Enough!” The command comes from Councilor-in-Chief Adelman. “While we held the Executor, we had the advantage in any negotiation. Now, he’s on the loose, with intimate knowledge of our logistics and capacity. We must plan a concerted strike against the Commonwealth, and yet the two of you are squabbling like children and wasting our time.”
Setting his jaw, Sebastían sits back down. The movement is fluid, catlike, as if his beast lurks just beneath the surface of his skin. “My apologies, Councilor-in-Chief.”
“May I point out,” I say, my tone dry, “that I am a person, not a disputed territory. I am not an asset to be won nor a bone to be fought over.”
Sebastían leans forward, his expression earnest. “I understand that, Eva. But you must understand that I have a duty to carry on my bloodline. Though wolfblood may be your rightful inheritance, the Commonwealth’s genetic manipulations have gifted you four times over. Would you deny our shared species the opportunity to survive?”
“I—” I begin, just as the double doors to the Council’s chambers creak open and Kilían limps in.
His eye is blackened, a line of stitches stands out against the pale skin of his throat, and he’s holding his left arm as if it hurts, but he moves steadily enough. I suck in my breath as his eyes flick to Ari, then to me. “Westergaard,” he says in greeting. “Marteinn.”
I hadn’t thought I missed anything or anyone from the Commonwealth. But hearing Kilían say our names, the way he did so many times during my training, sends a rush of unexpected nostalgia through me. To my surprise, I have to fight back tears.
Ari’s hand comes down on my shoulder, gripping tight. “Lead Interrogator Bryndísarson,” he says, using Kilían’s full title to emphasize what he’s capable of—and the respect he should be accorded. “Commander of the Thirty.”
Kilían comes to attention. Though the movement must hurt him, he gives no sign. “I apologize for my lateness, Councilor-in-Chief Adelman. Your healers refused to release me until they determined I was fit to venture out on my own.”
The Councilor-in-Chief’s brows quirk upward. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, Bellator Bryndísarson, I can hardly blame them. You look like you ought to be in the infirmary.”
“With all due respect, sir, you can’t afford that.” He shifts his weight, then winces. “As Westergaard pointed out, I led the Bellatorum’s elite force and reported directly to the Executor. I was privy to his plans to invade your territory. If you’re having a strategic discussion about retrieving him and marching on the Commonwealths, then you need to have me at this table.”
No matter how stoic Kilían might be, it’s clear he’s suffering. I push my chair back, getting to my feet, and at the other end of the table, Eldrina scoffs. “You’ll give up your seat for this one, skúma? How do we know he’s not a spy left behind to witness our most sensitive negotiations? I say we show him the door and keep him in the infirmary under guard until he’s well enough to be imprisoned.”
“He isn’t a spy,” Ari retorts. “This is the man who first told me the Brotherhood of the Wolf existed. Who gave us the information we needed to escape the Commonwealth. Without him, you wouldn’t have your precious four-beast skúma. You owe him a great deal.”
“And why should we believe you?” Eldrina’s tone is laced with scorn. “Who are you but someone who has contravened our old ways? Your abilities are unnatural. For all we know, you seek to turn Eva Marteinn against us.”
Ari’s rage simmers through the bond. Behind me, I hear the clink of metal as his hand drops to his weapons belt. Before he can draw a blade, I fix Eldrina with a glare. “He’s my familiar. And he’s right: Kilían’s backed your cause from the beginning, at great personal risk. If you want my support in this fight, you’ll accept them both. Do I make myself clear?”
Falcons are powerful birds of prey, but panthers will hunt birds, if need be—and Eldrina knows it. After a brief battle of wills, her dark eyes drop from mine and she sits back in her chair, every line of her lean body projecting displeasure.
“Ari Westergaard’s motives aside, who will vouch for the bellator?” Tristan’s upper lip rises in a sneer. “Other than his brainwashed sycophants?”
Sebastían turns to look at him, a growl rising in his throat. “That’s my future mate you speak of. If she respects him, then that’s good enough for me. It should be good enough for you too…no?”
Ari laughs, a sardonic chuckle that fills the room. “At last,” he says. “Something we agree on.”
I want to argue with Sebastían about the ‘future mate’ comment, but how can I, when he’s advocating for me and, by proxy, for Kilían? And it’s working. The selkie is terrified; I can smell the fear baking off him, acrid and sour. “I—I meant no disrespect,” he stammers.
“Really. And yet, you spoke so clearly, with such disdain.” Sebastían’s voice drops to a threatening purr as his claws slide from their sheaths. “One can hardly help but wonder what you did intend, then. For surely it wasn’t your intention to insult the honor of the Panther of the West, royalty of House Satrizona. Such a thing would be tantamount to idiocy, and you, Tristan of San Fraesco, are not an idiot. Or so I have always believed.”
He bends closer, his voice light, considering. “But if not a calculated insult, then what, Tristan of the Waters? Are you an idiot, a conniver…or just a coward? Because there’s no place for a fool at this table, and connivers or cowards must be punished.”
His gaze drifts to me, as if he thinks he’s doing me a favor by meting out Tristan’s just deserts. But I glance away, my own gaze roaming to each of the skúma and Council members in turn. Which do they think I am—a fool, a conniver, or a coward? Or their last, best hope?
My eyes fall at last on Tristan. Sebastían hasn’t even touched him, and he’s shaking so hard, it’s moving the entire table. But when I spare a glance for the Panther of the West, he shows no sign of backing down. Instead, his lips rise in a smile, as if Tristan’s terror pleases him.
We need to put a stop to this. But how? Instinctively, I look to Kilían for guidance and find him looking right back at me. The expression in his blue eyes is inscrutable as always, but he tilts his head ever so slightly toward the panther. Intervene, that gesture means. You are the cause; you must be the solution as well.
“Sebastían,” I say, putting a hint of my own panther’s growl into my voice, “enough.”
I feel his energy flare, the same way I did when he charged up the steps the night of the battle in the Great Hall. His beast recognizes mine, but her presence does nothing to calm him. Instead, he growls back, as if she’s only spurred him on. And around the table, one by one, the Council members and other skúma bow their heads in respect. Clearly, all they value is power, and my link to Sebastían provides it. They couldn’t care less if Tristan suffers as a result.
I want nothing more than to slit all their throats, but that would hardly help my cause: to rescue Tristan and prevent blood from being shed, so that we can move on to what really matters. In desperation, I reach for Ari and feel him opening the bond, lending me that delicate touch that worked so well for him in the interrogation chamber, the gift that made him Kilían’s favorite when it came to worming secrets out of even the most recalcitrant citizens.
“Come now,” I say to Sebastían, my voice gentle, cajoling. “You threaten Tristan for failing to trust my judgment, yet here you are, refusing to back off when I say my honor has been sufficiently avenged. Surely you don’t hold the leader of House San Fraesco to a lower standard than yourself. Or have I misunderstood what you’re made of?”
My words sink home; I can see it in the depths of his eyes, see the human behind the panther swim to the surface. “As my lady wishes,” he says at last, retracting his claws.
Relief sweeps over me, reflected in the faces of almost everyone around the table. Sebastían is the exception; he’s examining his nails, as if to make sure they’re as pristine as before. But I see something else on their faces, too: respect that I was strong enough to make the Panther of the West back down. Recognition of how powerful the two of us could be, together.
Much as I hate to admit it, I can feel the pull of Sebastían’s beast, calling to mine. You could be his queen, my panther whispers to me. Who would dare stand against you then?
Chapter 5
Ari
As Sebastían straightens, a self-satisfied look on his smug face, I have to resist the urge to let the air out of his inflated ego with my blade. He sinks back in his chair, steepling his hands on the table’s polished surface and eyeing Eva with a proprietary confidence that enrages me. How she can even consider marrying him after all we’ve been through is beyond me.
It’s ironic, really. Here we are, bound tighter than any marriage contract could offer. But I’ve never felt further away from her.
Through the bond, I feel some type of turmoil—guilt, maybe? Shame?—as she turns to Kilían. He’s still standing across from the room’s cavernous fireplace, just inside the doors. The light from the flames sets his red hair aglow, in sharp contrast to his pitch-black gear. “Take my seat,” she tells him, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I offer it freely. And you deserve it, no matter who will vouch for you.”
“That’s not nec—” Kilían begins, just as the double doors to the Council’s chambers slam open and a man bursts through. The evening’s theme, apparently.
My hand goes to my weapons belt—at least these Architect-forsaken fools allow me to carry my blades in here now. Ronan draws his gun. Every skúma comes to attention, and Layla growls, her wolf’s voice emerging from her human throat. There are guards posted outside the Council’s chamber, but as recent events demonstrated all too clearly, guards can be killed.
The newcomer stands in the doorway, panting. He’s tall and lean, with dark hair that brushes his collar and bright green eyes. He’s also covered in blood.
“I will vouch for the bellator,” he gasps. Sweat gleams on his brow. “And if Councilwoman Bridgette were here, she’d do the same. For he once saved not only my life, but hers as well.”
Kilían goes dead white, blue eyes blazing in his pale face. His right hand falls to his hip, where his weapons belt would normally hang, as if he’s seeking the comfort of a blade. Ulrich and Madsen haven’t let him in here armed, and I can’t say I blame them.
But Kilían doesn’t look like he wants to harm the intruder. In fact, he looks like a single word from this man could bring him to his knees.
“How much of that is yours?” He steps closer, then freezes. His hand hovers above the man’s gore-soaked jacket, as if he’s afraid to touch him, which makes no sense at all. Kilían’s spent most of his life around men drenched in blood.
Does he know this stranger? The others seem to. Ronan’s holstered his gun, and Layla’s stopped growling. But how would Kilían—
The man shakes his head, his chest heaving. “None of it. That’s what I came here to tell you. Councilor-in-Chief”—his gaze finds Adelman’s—“the scouts you sent were attacked. I found them on my way back from Banabrekkur. Three of them were already dead. The other two were badly hurt. All of this blood,” he says, gesturing at his clothing, “is theirs. And the blood of the men they killed.”
Banabrekkur. The word snags in my mind. I’ve heard it before, but where?
A murmur of distress rises around the table. Sebastían growls, and Ronan’s face sets in rigid lines of fury. As captain of the guard, the scouts are his to command. Now he’s lost three of his best guards in a recon-and-retrieval mission of two injured men and an unskilled traitor.
Jaxon, I think, my heart picking up speed. He was on that mission. And the Architect knows he’s got a self-destructive streak a mile wide. Is he lying dead in the woods, having taken a stupid, thoughtless risk to save his companions?
The Councilor-in-Chief rises to his feet, his chair scraping the marble, and voices what all of us are thinking. “What the hell happened?”
The newcomer shrugs one shoulder, a movement that’s strangely familiar. “The surviving scouts were unconscious. I was able to rouse them enough to learn the gist of the battle in the Hall and the Executor’s escape.” His voice squeezes tight around the Executor’s title, as if he has particular reason to hate him. “I dragged one of them back here. Jessamine. The other—Jaxon Fjeri—was able to walk on his own, though he was in considerable pain. He—”
“Jaxon’s alive?” Eva interrupts. “Will he be all right?”
“He’ll heal.” The man’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “He took a bullet to the shoulder, but it didn’t hit anything vital.” He looks over Eva’s head, at Ronan. “He said to tell you the scouts tracked the fugitives into the woods beyond Minneska, but then the trail evaporated. When they tried to pick it up again, they were attacked by a band of rogue exiles.”
“Exiles, so close to Vik?” Adelman’s gaze darkens.
“The scouts killed four of them; I saw the bodies. I can take you there.”
“I’ll speak with Jaxon.” Ronan’s voice is gruff. “Then, with your permission,” he says, turning to what remains of the Council, “we’ll send a party to bring back our dead, and hunt down the bastards who killed them.”
“Let us go with you,” Eva says at once. “You’ll be focused on retrieving the scouts and hunting the exiles. Ari and I can concentrate on finding the Executor.”
At the sound of my name, the newcomer’s eyes widen. He scans the room, as if searching for me. Discomfited, I clear my throat. “I’m with Eva. It’s impossible for Karsten and the Executor to vanish into thin air, like some kind of Architect-cursed magic. They’re out there, and we’ll find them. But we can’t afford to waste any more time.”
“Risking yourselves is unwise,” Peder begins, but Adelman cuts him off.
“All right. The two of you can go. But you’ll wait for Ronan to return from the infirmary after he’s gathered intelligence from Fjeri. The Executor’s disappearance and this attack may well be connected, and I won’t have you tearing off without a plan.” His deep-blue gaze bores into Eva, like he knows we planned to hunt the Executor down, with or without permission.
Sebastían glares at me, as if he thinks I planned to kidnap his so-called future mate and drag her into the woods by her hair. What a joke. If he thinks I have a prayer of telling Eva what to do, he’s lost his mind. But thank Lady Luck for small favors, he doesn’t speak.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Be ready.” Ronan stands, dropping a hand on the newcomer’s bloodstained shoulder in acknowledgment before pushing through the double doors. Adelman follows. Not a moment too soon, the accursed meeting’s over.
As people begin to file out behind Adelman, the newcomer’s gaze flicks to Kilían. To me. Back to Kilían again. And then, to my bewilderment, the Lead Interrogator gives a small but definitive nod.
What in the nine hells?
I stalk toward Kilían, wanting answers. But the Lead Interrogator, who’s always hyperaware of every movement in his vicinity—a raised eyebrow, a cynical tilt of the head, far less a six-foot-two armed warrior heading straight for him—isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the newcomer, and the expression in them is unmistakable: a fierce, shining joy.
And then I know. The first time I entered this room and stood before the Council of Nine, I’d asked them just one question, the one that mattered most to me. And Adelman had replied, He’s stationed to the north, in Banabrekkur.
Realization breaks over me like a rogue wave, a moment before Kilían speaks. “Kennett,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Hello, Kilían,” my father says, his lips curving in a rueful half-smile. My smile. “It’s been a long time.”
Chapter 6
Ari
My father. Here. In this room. After all this time.
I don’t know what to say. To do. And from the looks of it, he doesn’t, either.
Kennett opens his mouth and shuts it again, looking like one of the goldfish that bobs in the stone-rimmed pond behind the House of Echoes. His gaze lingers on me, flicking from my face to my body to my blades and back again, like he’s trying to drink me in and can’t do it fast enough. I force myself to stand as steadily as I would for inspection, aware of the roomful of witnesses. The Council already mistrusts me. The last thing I need is to hand them a vulnerability to exploit.
“You have my eyes,” my father says at last, his voice breaking. “But just from looking at you, I can see you have your mother’s heart.” And then, to my consternation, he throws his arms around me.
