Axe laughed as fists flew. Drinks spilled across the floor and chairs and mugs alike were broken over heads. It felt as though Risk were observing a play rather than an actual scene. She only pulled herself back as she noticed a small red head working her way through the crowd, jumping and dodging blows as she held up her pint.

  As soon as Axe reached Risk, the girl took her hand and led her the rest of the way upstairs.

  “Where—” Before Risk could finish asking the question, Axe shook her head, mirth dancing in her gaze.

  “Just follow me,” she said. “Yer not gonna want to miss the show.”

  “What show?” Risk asked.

  Axe snickered. “You’ll see.”

  She led Risk through the empty upstairs rooms—some filled with storage items and others with empty beds—until they found a room that faced out the front. Shoving the window open, Axe leaned out and then gestured for Risk to go ahead. Risk poked her head out next and saw an awning made of wood.

  “Climb up,” Axe urged. “They’ll be the best seats in the house.”

  Risk couldn’t say what made her follow the girl’s insanity, but she swung one leg out and then the next. Just as Axe had managed to crawl out next to her, the two of them dangling their legs over the awning, people began pouring out from the tavern—fighting and brawling as though they’d lost their minds to the madness Axe had caused.

  Axe laughed again, the sound loud and boisterous. She raised her mug as she took another hefty sip, and Risk turned away, spotting Vaughn amidst the fray. His face was red with effort as he tossed one man after the other—all seeing him and finding him to be their next challenge. Unsurprisingly, all Vaughn had to do was lift and propel them toward whatever hard surface was near. Sometimes, he didn’t even look for a surface and merely threw them at another attacker.

  “Axe!” Vaughn shouted.

  Around the corner, a cart careened with several people following behind. “Uh oh,” Axe said, sounding like she was having the time of her life.

  Risk couldn’t face it. She squeezed her eyes shut. As she did she heard two distinct voices screaming Axe’s name—Vaughn’s and Quinn’s.

  “This is gonna be the best birthday ever,” Axe said, laughing as she downed the rest of her spirits.

  Risk didn’t share the sentiment if the bar brawl was anything to go by.

  Cruelty’s Consequence

  “If you poke a monster, do not be surprised when it pokes back.”

  — Quinn Darkova, fear twister, right-hand to the King of Norcasta

  * * *

  The dull roar of the crowd was beginning to give Quinn a headache.

  She motioned with her fingers for a servant walking by with a jug of something clear. The young man turned, his eyes widening, the smile on his face freezing to hide the wariness in his expression. Quinn was too parched to care.

  “Is that water?” she asked.

  “No, my lady,” he answered. “Spirits for the contestants.”

  Quinn groaned but motioned for him to move on. The servant didn’t dally as he turned and disappeared into the throng below. She looked out over the raised platform from which Lazarus and his house sat. Wooden benches and chairs had been brought out for those of House Fierté and its emissaries. Down below, the sheep mingled, watching as—not far off—Axe competed in a climbing competition, along with four other poor fools.

  Quinn sighed as she watched the girl use the sharp end of her axes as picks to hold her up. She cradled the beam between her thighs, using the muscle in her legs to shuffle her upwards and the strength in her arms to pull the hatchets from the wood and rebury them two feet above.

  “It’s really not fair,” Quinn said to no one in particular, motioning to the ‘competition.’

  “What’s not?” Draeven answered, coming up to her side.

  “This,” she waved at the courtyard that had been transformed overnight into one of the biggest parties Leone had likely seen in years. “She asked for competitions and entertainment but so far all I’ve seen are drunkards and fools. Not a single person has been able to win one of these so-called competitions. It’s rubbish.”

  “Rubbish?” another voice asked. “She wanted a competition. She didn’t say how competent the competitors need be.” Speaking in heavily accented Norcastan was Petra Stoneskin, a bastard’s daughter but a Maji, nonetheless. She’d come all the way from Ilvas to celebrate the young heir’s celebration of birth. Apparently, in the time they’d been gone, Imogen had chosen to clean house, and by doing so, she had eliminated the vast majority of her court. Petra was brought back as her new hand, and as such was the one who came to visit for the occasion.

  “It’s a farce,” Quinn replied. “She wanted a day that made her the center of attention and the chance to win at everything. Who picked the events anyway?”

  “I did,” Petra grinned. Her teeth were yellowed, but some were gold. “I picked the opponents too.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes. “Of course you did.” She wiped her palm over her sweat-slicked face and through her hair. “As if she needed more reasons to think of herself as almighty.”

  A walloping battle cry sounded from across the yard where Axe sat atop the wooden beam, both hands raised, axes clenched in her fists as she waved her arms. The crowd cheered, although from the looks of it, half of them didn’t even know what they were clapping for.

  Nobles, she thought. All anyone had to say was spirits and party and they would flock from across the continent.

  Quinn glanced over across the platform to find Lazarus already staring at her. His face was tilted toward the nobleman standing in front of him, but his eyes—they focused intently upon her face. She lifted an eyebrow as if to silently ask how much longer she must endure this torture. With the hot sun on her pale skin and the scent of fermented drink in the air, she was feeling a bit . . . unsettled.

  Lazarus turned his chin a fraction one way and then another, silently telling her it was not yet time for her to leave.

  She pursed her lips, and his gaze hardened, threatening to cut like the edge of a stone should she step out of line. Knowing very well the edge she toed with him, Quinn sighed and turned back to the small group gathered around her.

  Petra was still talking, somewhat animatedly given her newly found knowledge of their language. Draeven was holding a cup of something vile. He didn’t drink it, but he smiled and nodded politely, every now and then his eyes darting over to Risk. Quinn glanced sideways, and a frown started when she noticed how Risk smiled back whenever he looked her way. It was timid. Shy, even—but it was there.

  Quinn looked her up and down once, her eyes narrowing further.

  Risk glanced over. “What?”

  Quinn stared for a moment more before she said, “Nothing.”

  Risk cocked an eyebrow, tilting her head. The action annoyed her more than anything because it was her own. “Are you sure about that?” Risk asked. “You don’t sound sure.”

  Very purposefully, Quinn looked over at Draeven and then back to Risk.

  Her sister’s cheeks reddened. Her brow furrowed and the bow of her lips pushed together. Quinn quirked a brow and tilted her head, almost mockingly. Risk glared, but instead of confronting her, she turned and walked off the platform.

  Quinn stood there, staring after her, not understanding the slicing sensation in her chest. She crossed her arms, watching her sister’s horns move through the throng of the crowd. While the guards might love her, the nobles still feared her more than anything else. They parted like the wake of a ship through still water.

  “Where did Risk go?” Draeven asked, pausing in his conversation with Petra.

  “To get some air,” Quinn replied, a bit more harshly than she should have, but she didn’t care.

  “Maybe I should—”

  “No need,” she interrupted smoothly. “I’ll follow her.”

  She didn’t wait for his response as she started forward, taking the steps two at a time. The heat of the mid-afternoon day caused the blood in her veins to pound as she trailed through the crowd. The gold insignia pinned to her leather top drew enough attention to make the sheep scatter, but also take notice as she prowled across the green grass toward the row of tents. Her sister’s black horns leading her.

  “Excuse me, my la—” The words dried up like food left to spoil in the scorching heat. The tone going from pleasant to silently sour as the man looked upon her. “Quinn Darkova,” Lord Northcott said. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

  Her jaw slammed shut. A cold wave washed over her despite the unrelenting, dry heat. Her posture went stiff and still as she replied, “The feeling is mutual, my lord.”

  Much to her ire, he didn’t respond in irritation, but instead scrutiny as he looked down at her. His brown hair had been tied back at the nape, making the lines in his face all the more apparent. “Yes,” he replied. “So it seems.”

  With one last scan over her features, he turned back to the other men he’d been talking to, none of which Quinn recognized. She catalogued their faces in case she needed to remember them later, and continued onward, breathing a little heavier for it.

  Something about that man inflamed the darkness that settled deep inside her. It riled it, though she knew she wasn’t alone in that. After the last lord she’d killed, though, Quinn was careful to stuff it back down and keep the edge of her temper in check—lest someone’s head, or even their heart, go missing.

  Quinn walked through the row of tents housing the most exotic of creatures in cages. Axe had wanted entertainment, and Petra had brought them in specially from every corner of the continent. Quinn had expected to see her sister there, but at the end of the row, her dark horns veered left and disappeared from sight. Quinn followed.

  “Risk,” she called out, raising her voice an octave. The young woman dressed in men’s clothes paused and looked back, narrowing her cerulean-colored eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you ‘what’s wrong’ me,” Risk snapped, rounding on her as Quinn stepped closer. “That was low—what you did back there.”

  She looked away—toward the tents, toward the sky. Her cheeks did not flame, and her pulse did not race, but Quinn still felt those restless emotions stirring through her. “What exactly did I do?” Quinn asked, watching a cloud drift by in an otherwise endless blue sky.

  “You—you—” Risk’s teeth clanked as her mouth snapped shut, and she let out a frustrated sound. Fur spotted on her skin, and her nails began to turn to claws. Her chest rose and fell for several minutes as she squeezed her eyes shut. Only when the fur vanished and the claws retreated did she open her eyes and continue. “You insinuated that there is something between Draeven and I.”

  “Is there?” Quinn prompted, raising both eyebrows.

  “No,” Risk snapped. “And there never will be because he’s a man.”

  “You prefer women?” Quinn asked nonchalantly, crossing her arms.

  “I prefer no one,” Risk snapped. “After spending ten years being defiled every single day—do you really believe I’m going to just be able to move on? To pick up as if nothing happened?” Risk clenched her fists, and Quinn let her arms drop.

  “No, of course not—” She reached for Risk. That was the wrong move. Her sister swatted her hand away.

  “But you do,” she said. “You spent months training me to be around people. Teaching me to run and then to fight and then to kill, so that you could return here, and I could be with you. You taught me to turn panic into strength so that we could return to your southern king like we could pick up where you left off as if nothing happened.”

  Quinn’s lips parted, but she promptly closed them and then swallowed. Her throat felt dry.

  “You have to move on at some point, Risk—”

  “Don’t you think I’m trying!” her sister yelled. The tension in the air shifted as her sister’s eyes began to glow. “I go to my lessons. I train every day. I make myself take walks even though they stare at me. I know what they think, and yet I am trying to pull together some semblance of a life after all these years, but it is not so easy as you seem to think it is.” Shrieks started in the background. Footsteps pounded against the barren land as a low series of growls came from the tents.

  Quinn lifted both hands in surrender. “I was not trying to upset you.”

  “Oh, really?” Risk asked, mocking her in turn. “It wasn’t your jealousy that rode you to point out that I might smile in the presence of a man? You pointed it out, and now whenever I see him I will think of you. I will think of what you insinuated. I will wonder if every look he casts my way is heated. I will question every time he knocks on our door whether he one day plans to hold me down and take his pleasure between my thighs while I scream until my voice is hoarse.”

  Quinn stepped away as the growls grew louder. More pronounced. Beasts from faraway lands roared, and it was only then that Quinn had noticed the courtyard was silent.

  “I might have been jealous, but I did not mean to cause those feelings—” she started, glancing between the tents and her sister.

  “No,” Risk said. “You don’t realize the effect your words have on people. You just think you can be cruel and that everyone will fall in line—”

  An ear-splitting screech rang through the air, interrupting whatever she had been about to say next.

  Risk turned toward the tents.

  Crunching metal was not a sound heard often. It echoed through the courtyard like a hammer striking an anvil. Slowly, both women walked toward the noise.

  Just as fast as it had started, the sound stopped.

  An eerie quiet settled over the yard just before a tent flap moved.

  Out came a griffin. With the body of a lion and the head of an eagle, it turned, looking over the people surrounding it. As it made a single sweep, the gold of its eye caught hers and it paused.

  Like a beast that had found its prey, it focused and tensed. Wings of golden feathers unfurled. The griffin looked at Quinn, and then, as if it were possessed . . .

  It charged.

  Court of Misfits

  “There are beasts and there are tamers, but every now and then—they are one in the same.”

  — Draeven Adelmar, rage thief, left-hand to the King of Norcasta

  * * *

  The wine tasted like piss.

  Whoever had brought it clearly hadn’t tried it. Still, Draeven held his cup and pretended to be partaking in the festivities, even if his exhaustion went bone-deep. Letter after letter he wrote pretending to be Lord Callis. Lorraine had begun to manage the late lord’s estate while Dominicus handled the affairs on the actual property. As it turned out, Callis had had his hands in all sorts of unsavory entertainments; slave hunting was only a drop in the bucket. Going through the old letters, writing the new, managing the cover-up, and continuing with his own duties as Lazarus’ left-hand was beginning to truly wear on him.

  The one bright spot of it all was a girl with obsidian horns.

  The very same girl that was striding away right now, her much more intolerable sister following after.

  “I didn’t know that House Fierté had a raksasa in their court,” Petra said, sipping at the disgusting wine as if it were water.

  “It doesn’t,” Draeven answered stiffly. Petra turned to look over her shoulder and then back at him, lifting a brow.

  “She has horns,” Petra motioned to her head. “And gray skin. What would you have me call her?”

  “For one, she is only half,” Draeven said. “For another, she is Quinn’s sister.”

  Petra’s brows rose further. “And here I thought things couldn’t get more interesting in your court of misfits.” She grinned slyly. “Imogen will be very interested to hear that the white raksasa has a tainted sister.” Petra looked back over her shoulder where both girls were disappearing behind the tents. “Very interesting indeed.”

  “So long as you don’t call her that again, Imogen can be as interested as she’d like. The girl has a name, you know.” Draeven bit his cheek, regretting defending her as soon as Petra’s grin turned a shade more impish.

  “Oh? Does she now?” She chuckled. “Tell me, what do you call her?”

  “Risk,” Draeven answered. “That’s her chosen name, and so long as you are in our court, you will respect that and not refer to her as tainted or raksasa again.” He delivered the words conversationally, but they were anything but nonchalant.

  “Very well, my lord,” she said. “It doesn’t change what she is, though.”

  “See that you call her by her name, if it’s all the same to you,” he replied and lifted his wine. She clinked their wooden cups together and downed hers in a single swig.

  “I need more wine,” she complained. Draeven extended his cup.

  “Take mine,” he offered. She looked down at the maroon liquid and back to him, then shrugged.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said. He handed off his wine and left her to it, retreating into the crowd. Every few steps he took, a lord or lady stopped to say hello. He smiled and nodded through their thinly veiled requests as many attempted to stop him for longer than a moment or two. Some wanted men, others wanted favors, and even still were those that wanted a response to the one question even he did not know the answer to.

  What did Lazarus plan to do about slavery?

  He dodged the question each time, telling them the King had yet to decide, but the sideways glances and unpleased looks said much. By the time he’d reached the tents where they were keeping the animals until the evening show, Draeven wanted nothing more than to take off the golden pin on his lapel marking him as the go-to man for such questions concerning Lazarus and stick it on a donkey’s ass.

  He strolled through the tents, glancing in each to see where Risk and Quinn had gone. As he did so, he noticed something odd.

  A wariness in the animals.

  An aggression that hadn’t been there this morning.

  They shifted and turned, moving uneasily in their cages. Some started to growl. Others batted at the bars. Dread settled inside him as he moved faster. The closer he got toward the end, the more incensed the beasts became. The air thickened with a tension that became smoldering in the dreaded heat.

 

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