House of Gods, page 15
Hadrian cleared his throat. “This is beyond my knowledge. I might be … too concrete of a thinker to figure out the magic within it.”
“So, you all think I should be working with other people?” Clover asked.
She got up from her seat and walked to the closed window. Kinkadia was still burning two weeks after the Red Masks took over. They were still uprooting people out of their houses and putting up guard blockades, all the while calling it peace.
She pulled hard on her cigarette. She needed help. She needed Kerrigan. Kerrigan would know what to do. But she was dead or missing in action. Clover would have to figure this one out on her own.
“Fine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You can bring them in, but I have to be here at all times.”
“Of course,” Thea said, the relief evident in her voice.
It wasn’t until she was gone that Clover spoke again. “Am I making the right choice?”
Hadrian and Darby glanced at each other—a gesture that was as familiar as breathing to them. They got up and came to her side, taking her hands.
“We’ll figure this out together,” Darby said. She leaned her head on Clover’s shoulder.
“Together,” Hadrian repeated, tucking them both into him.
“Together,” Clover whispered.
20
The Princess
WYNTER
The hills to Wynter’s homeland were so familiar, but she had never traversed them on foot. For a thousand years, the House of Shadows had been under a spell. None of the descendants of those who had first been trapped could enter or leave. She’d been born under Ravinia Mountain and until the spell came down, she had never left the mountain, except for the few hundred feet outside of its beautiful exterior.
Then, the spell had come down.
She had done that. She had sacrificed all to get them out of there.
No. That wasn’t quite right. She knew the order of things now. Kerrigan had brought the barrier down. Wynter just witnessed it. She … exploited it. She and Aisling had walked into the throne room and convinced her father to march on the nearest human city.
She shook her head at the memory.
She was still working on piecing it together. Like her mother before her, Wynter had something wrong inside her mind. Like broken glass, and sometimes, the jagged pieces rattled around, making her mother go absent. Eventually, she had taken her own life to escape the glass.
Wynter had believed that was her own path.
That being on the outside of the spell might fix it. But if anything, it had only made it worse.
Until …
“Still having trouble?” a male asked to her left.
He was tan with a blue-green aura. The aura almost made her trust him. Rely on him. Amond. The healer who had put the glass in her mind back together.
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
She never would have told someone that before. Never admitted weakness. Weakness got a person killed within the House of Shadows. But that was before Fordham and Kerrigan defeated her in battle. Before they refused her a warrior’s death. Before they brought her somewhere to heal. Brought her to him.
At the top of the hill, Dozan Rook smirked at her. Her heart skipped a beat, and the glass disappeared in entirety at the sight of him. She had always favored both males and females. But until she had laid eyes on the King of the Wastes, she had never once favored a human.
He was without a doubt the most beautiful man she had ever seen. By all means, she was not short, and somehow, he still towered over her. He had honey eyes that almost glowed gold in the light and hair burnished through with red. He wore his dark suit with a red vest and the characteristic R pin on his lapel that revealed him for the criminal mastermind behind what had once been the Wastes.
Now, the Wastes were buried under a hundred feet of rubble.
The loch dens? Gone.
The gambling pits? Gone.
The Dragon Ring for fights? Gone.
The only place Wynter had ever felt safe? Gone.
But she had gotten people out. She had gotten Dozan out. And with nowhere else to turn, they had headed to her home.
The place that had always felt like a tomb.
“It’ll come with time,” Dozan said easily.
“The one thing we’re short on.”
Dozan slid his hands into his pockets. The trek had made everyone exhausted and irritable, but Dozan was the same as ever. He hadn’t even broken out into a sweat.
“Then, we should get started.”
She shot him a filthy look and then continued down the hill that led into Cavour, the small relic town on the outskirts of Ravinia Mountain. This morning, she had woken and changed out of her fighting leathers and into the only gown she had available. It wasn’t as magnificent as the ones she had worn inside the mountain, but it was going to have to be good enough.
There could be no doubt that she was the princess, returned to her people.
Despite the circumstances of her return. Despite showing up with a strange amalgamation of humans, half-Fae, and Dozan’s followers, all who had magic that she could hardly explain. Despite everything that had led to her downfall.
The whispers began throughout the village. Wynter held her head high and crossed the field, where she had gone to war for her father. To the door of her homeland.
Fordham was gone.
The throne was empty.
She would not see anyone but an Ollivier on the throne. If she had to behead her father’s last queen to take back what was rightfully hers, she would not hesitate.
The door swung inward, and a diminutive female appeared at the entrance with another behind her. Wynter had no knowledge of who either of them was.
She raised her chin. “I am Princess Wynter Ollivier of the House of Shadows, and I have come to reclaim my throne in my brother’s absence.”
The female exchanged a glance with the other behind her.
“I am Adelaide, chief attendant of King Fordham Ollivier of the House of Shadows,” she said evenly. “This is my daughter, Delle, chief attendant for Draco Mountain. You are not welcome within these walls.”
Wynter’s nostrils flared as her eyes widened. Her hands gripped into fists, and she felt the righteous fury rise up in her, as it always had. “As if you could keep me out,” she hissed as her shadow magic rose to the occasion.
“We do not want a fight,” Delle said, pushing past her mother. She was dressed simply in black silk. She had the build of a warrior. Now that she had crossed into the light, Wynter was sure that she had seen her before. “We simply want the king returned to his throne. Are you here to steal that from him?”
Her magic extinguished. “No.”
The word hurt to admit. She had long been in contention with her brother for her place on the throne, even knowing she was not entirely sane. But she did not want it now. She only wanted what was best for her people and to stop the bastards who had shackled them to this mountain and pushed her brother out.
Delle nodded. “And your retinue?”
Wynter glanced back once to see Dozan had taken a few steps closer to her at the show of strength. His gaze was hard. He’d been ready to defend her. She believed he could, even without magic at his back.
She nodded at him once, and he relaxed infinitesimally.
“They are with me. The Red Masks hold the Society. They destroyed half the city. And they pushed my brother out. I will not stand for it.”
“How do we know that you don’t hold their allegiance?” Adelaide asked sensibly.
“Believe me or not, but I was working with Fordham and Kerrigan before everything fell apart. This is not what they want. This is not what I want.”
“What do you want?” Delle demanded.
“To repair the broken glass.”
Delle tilted her head to the side, as if seeing straight through to what that meant. “You seem well, Princess.”
“I am well,” she admitted with an arched eyebrow.
“Then, you are welcome.”
The door opened, and before she crossed the threshold, Dozan was there. His hand reaching for her own. He squeezed it once, a shit-eating I told you so scrawled across his features.
She wanted to punch him in his perfect face at the audacity. And yet … she wanted to kiss him, just to see if he tasted as delicious as he looked.
“A step behind your princess,” she teased him.
“You forget,” he said, wrapping a finger through her ice-white hair, “I am a king in my own right.”
“To no kingdom.”
“Ah then, we are the same.”
They were.
“Then, let us claim a new throne.”
He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and desire shot through her. An insufferable and relentless know-it-all. And yet … and yet …
“To a new throne,” she agreed.
Then, they stepped across the threshold and into the House of Shadows as equals.
21
The Training
Constantine was true to his word.
The next day, he walked down to the coliseum with her in tow.
“How can I help you?” the same old man asked.
“I have to make a change to my tournament roster,” Constantine said.
The man nodded, as if this were routine. “We’ve had a few come back in and drop out of the main fight. Once they thought it through, they decided to move their competitor down to a potentially safer fight. We’re down to twenty in the tournament. Think it’ll go lower than that by the end of the week.”
Constantine glanced at her. He didn’t want to do this. He’d made it plain last evening that he didn’t want her to enter. If she lost, then he’d never get his money back for what he’d paid for her. Selling her to Tarcus or one of the other senators for a few nights would certainly be easier than hoping she survived the tournament circuit. Not that it would be any better for his guilty conscience. It was Evander who had eventually convinced him. If she could beat Myron in open combat, then he wasn’t ready for the final tournament.
“All right. I have it here.” The man removed Constantine’s original paperwork. “I assume you would like to move Myron to a lower fight?”
“Yes,” Constantine said. “To the staff fighting circuit.”
The man scratched out his name on the final fight and wrote him into the other bout. Then, he made notations on his own documents.
“Just need your mark here.”
He slid the papers to Constantine.
He looked sick. “And I need to add a new fighter to the final fight.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “A new fighter?”
“Are you sure?” Constantine asked her.
“I’m going to win,” she hissed at him. “I’ll write my own name if you won’t.”
He brushed her off. “Yes. Put it under Felicity.”
“Red,” she corrected.
That had been her name in the Dragon Ring when she was fighting for Dozan Rook. And it was the name that she wanted to keep when she went into the coliseum.
The man looked alarmed. “General, is this the competitor you plan to put in the final fight?”
“Indeed. Put it under Red.”
“She is … a Doma,” the man said. He bowed deeply to Kerrigan. “No magic is allowed in the tournament.”
“She doesn’t have magic.”
“And I’m not a Doma,” Kerrigan added.
Constantine glared at her. “You look enough like them.”
“I have to agree,” the man said. “And if she isn’t a Doma, she is … quite small.”
It was Kerrigan’s time to put the full force of her glare toward the man. “Did we ask for your opinion?”
“Certainly, it’s my place to remind you that this is a fight to the death.” He gestured to her like he couldn’t believe he even had to point it out. “Every round will be a fight to the death. Only one comes out alive.”
“She’s aware,” Constantine said.
“It’s fine. I’m going to be the one who comes out.”
The man shook his head in silent disbelief. “All right. My warning has been rendered. What you do with it is your business.” He pulled the paperwork back toward him, mumbling under his breath, “An Andine putting forward a female Doma as a competitor. Now, I’ve heard of everything.”
But he did as he had been told. He added her name, and Constantine signed for it.
“You have up until an hour before your first fight to withdraw,” the man informed them both. “In case that is of interest to you. After that, you go into the coliseum whether or not you want to.”
Kerrigan nodded. “Understood.”
The man sighed and then filed their paperwork away. Kerrigan figured his disbelief was to her advantage. No one was going to expect her to win. But always went into her fights as the underdog, and she’d endured the Society prejudice for more than a year. She could win this too.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Constantine said as they left the coliseum.
“I’m not sure you had a choice after I handed Myron his ass on a platter.”
Constantine pursed his lips. “He’s going to be a problem.”
“Yep.” She had known that before she challenged him. She also didn’t care.
“He was displeased when I told him I was moving him to the staff fights.”
“Yep.”
“He’s my best gladiator.”
“And I beat him with ease,” she reminded him.
He stared back at her with indifference. “You’re a real pain.”
“Heard that before too.”
She followed him across the massive bridge to the western banks of Carithian. Both were silent as they traversed the crowded streets. She wasn’t the damsel, and now, he was learning that first hand.
They reached the house, unmolested. The sounds of training came from the pit already. Her hand itched to hold a sword again and to fully put this pretty-girl persona behind her. She could primp and preen with the best of them, but she was happier with her feet in the sand.
“The first match for the main fight is in a week,” Constantine said as a servant pulled the door open to let them inside his house. “The lower fights start in three days. I spoke to Evander, and we agreed that I’ll handle your training.”
She blinked. “Training?”
“You think I’m going to let you into the coliseum without seeing where you’re at? I’ve been working with Myron for a year. I’m not putting my name behind you any other way.”
“A year,” she said softly. “And I still beat him in a few minutes.”
“Maybe don’t keep saying that where people can hear you.”
She shrugged. “I’m used to long training hours.”
“I want you to know that if I don’t find you up to it, then I’ll pull your name from the tournament myself.”
She glared up at him. “What benchmark are you going to move to prove that a woman shouldn’t be in this tournament? Because you were going to let Myron go off and die without much effort. I could see easily that he wasn’t ready, and now, you want to judge for yourself whether or not I am.”
Constantine returned her heated expression. “I don’t believe in training women, but you’ve forced myself. So, I’ll give you the same instruction I gave Myron. He was ready, which is the only reason we’re having this conversation. Because if you beat my prized warrior, then you might have a chance of winning this thing.”
“Then, let’s get started.”
Sweat coated Kerrigan’s pale skin, running down her back and into her eyes. Sand was a second layer on her body. It kicked up onto her legs and chest and arms. It got into every nook and cranny. No wonder the men headed to the baths every day after training ended. She had sand where no sand should ever belong. Her hair was dripping, even with the tie that she’d taken from one of the other gladiators earlier in the day to hold it off her back.
She received some good-natured ribbing about her training, but most chose to leave her alone. Theo continued his persistent flirting. At least this hadn’t changed his opinion of her. Though Myron’s distaste was apparent. Even that she had to block out. She had no room to do anything but react when fighting Constantine. Before today she had never seen him fight or train anyone. Evander had done much of the actual coaching. But was a reason Constantine was the general. Why he was kurios.
His men respected him because he had earned that respect.
“Again,” he snapped at her.
She came forward with her sword, beating the series of attacks he threw at her. They shifted throughout the hours of exertion. They were like nothing she had ever fought against back home.
“The last step is like this,” Constantine said when she finished. He cut through the sand like water. His movements effortless. “See?”
“It’s like coming at it sideways.” She brought her sword up and tried again. It wasn’t perfect, but she was getting there. It didn’t matter how good she was. She always wanted to get better.
“Yes,” he said without emotion. “That was it. Now, do it again.”
So, she did. Again and again until the movements sailed out of her. It was different than her training in Alandria. Yet they were related moves. As if they had been trained side by side, but not interacting. One person mimicking, but not replicating.
“Take a break. Get some water.”
Kerrigan let the sword swing down to her side. Her muscles ached in the best way. She swiped sweat off of her brow and reached for the jug of water. She wanted to upend the entire thing over her head.
“What is this style called?”
Constantine continued to flow through the moves. “It’s the Andine style. I was trained by my father, who was trained by his father before him and so on. The kurios’s greatest weapons are his people and his sword. We begin training as soon as we can walk.”
