For King and Corruption, page 16
“Where are they?” he muttered to himself.
He threw open the tent flap, coming face-to-face with a griffin.
It was the most magnificent of the beasts Petra had brought for Axe’s celebration. Golden feathers and sand-colored fur lined its body. The creature turned its head and looked upon Draeven.
It opened its mouth and let out the most blood curdling of shrieks.
Draeven watched, unable to stop himself, as the beast quieted and so did the grounds.
He lifted his hands, but the moment he took a step forward to calm the creature, it struck. Using only the power of its beak, it bit at the iron bars containing it in a frenzy.
A horrible feeling settled in his gut as the iron crunched. He’d heard rumors of the strength with which a griffin could bite. Draeven knew the tales, and still he hadn’t thought to worry before now.
He hadn’t realized the danger. None of them had until the beast bit the bar clean through.
The griffin threw its weight at the now twisted metal and the cage yielded.
Holding his breath, he lowered his gaze and began to back away. The tent flap touched his back and the griffin started forward. Its paws were the size of his head, and it walked with lethal grace as it strode toward him and then, as if he weren’t even there, continued on.
Draeven’s heart hammered as the flap opened and then shut. His breath was hard. Panting. He turned and pushed it aside once more, facing the creature as it turned in a circle and then paused.
He followed the golden stare several yards away.
Draeven’s blood ran cold.
Risk. The beast was staring at Risk.
The back legs tightened, and a pounding rang in his ears as it charged. Wings unfurled and body coiled tight for a kill—it crossed the space and ran straight for—
Quinn.
His chest loosened just a fraction as he reached for the sword in his belt. The metal blade scraped the inner sheath, but the beast didn’t stop. Draeven half wondered if Quinn would survive when a shield appeared out of nothing. Black as shadow and night, it spread before her like a void into another realm.
The beast kept running, and just when it was upon her it slammed into the mass of darkness—of fear. A lightning-loud crack rang through the yard as it hit the barrier and rebounded. The creature bounced nearly ten feet back, its back legs crumpling as it landed hard against the dry soil, rolling in the plume of orangish-brown dust.
Draeven strode forward on one side, and Quinn approached from the other.
She lifted a hand, and he saw the movements of the basilisk as it started to rise—
“Wait.”
There were only two people that could make both him and her pause in a kill.
He looked up as Risk approached. She was covered in a fine sheen of orange that made her eyes seem even brighter as she stepped forward. “Don’t kill it,” she said. “It’s not his fault.”
“Are you mad?” Quinn asked. “That beast tried to kill me—”
“It’s not his fault,” Risk repeated. Her fingers trembled. Draeven looked from the griffin that was beginning to stir again to the girl before him. “I was angry. I got upset, and my magic— it . . .”
“Lashed out,” he said, finishing her sentence. It wasn’t an accusation, but judging by the way her eyes watered she might have taken it as one. Her jaw clenched, but she nodded once.
“Myori’s wrath,” Quinn muttered, lowering her hand. “Can you control it?”
“I think so,” Risk said, starting forward. He wanted to stop her from approaching the beast, no matter how strong her Maji abilities might be. He knew better than most how much she struggled to calm it. Even still, he knew there was nothing he could do short of beheading the creature.
She lowered herself before it as the griffin moved to stand.
Her head inclined forward, and her hands lifted palm up, outstretched, but waiting for permission. The creature lifted its head, and Draeven clenched his fists—waiting—dreading—what it would do.
But the anxiety was for nothing.
It sat like a common house cat and leaned forward, rubbing its feathered head against her open hands. She smiled softly, whispering words he couldn’t hear.
He couldn’t help but release a shaky breath and smile too, because a girl with horns sat in the dirt and tamed the most savage of creatures before an entire palace of nobles.
But when she looked up, it was not him she looked at. It was Quinn she smiled toward. His brow furrowed as he looked between the two sisters. He suspected it was something she had done to cause Risk to get that upset to begin with, given the beast charged at her and no other.
Unlike the lilac-haired woman, Risk seemed to have let it go as she rose to her feet and escorted the creature back inside the tent. The flap closed behind her.
“Whatever you’re thinking, get it out of your head.”
He turned. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
Quinn’s eyes dropped to the sword, unsheathed and in hand, and then slowly traveled back up the length of his person. The way she watched him wasn’t heated or kind. It was like a predator studying the weaknesses of its prey before it pounced.
“Don’t I, though?” she asked.
Draeven fumbled for words, and she smiled coldly. Quinn kept walking past him and entered the tent, closing it behind her.
Too hot to ignore the pounding in his head as his own magic started to eat at him, Draeven took her dismissal as his turn to leave.
She was right, and he loathed her for it.
Games of War
“When you have all the jewels and power that money can buy, the only thing left to bargain with is secrets.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, the esoteric King of Norcasta
* * *
Lazarus lifted the crystal decanter from his desk and poured himself two fingers worth. In the dim candlelight, the amber was a few shades darker; closer to a walnut brown. He brought the glass to his lips and drank half in one swallow.
It burned on the way down, but his souls quieted, if only for a moment.
He took a seat in the thick-cushioned chair and leaned back, letting out a heavy sigh. Lazarus wanted to believe it was the events of the day that had riled him and put his magic so on edge, but he knew the truth. In two days’ time the blood heirs were scheduled to arrive, and with them, a litany of problems. Even overlooking Lord Callis’ death, he knew that Quinn was going to be an issue.
Rumors had reached his door about Amelia and her brothers. What they wanted. What they planned to bargain with. What was worse was that Lazarus actually had to consider it. With Callis gone, it was only a matter of time until word got out and the other southern noblemen would hear of it. He’d lose at least one member of his private council—likely more. Not to mention the support of his countrymen. Without them and their lands, Norcasta was divided and war was imminent.
It was Lazarus’ duty to prevent that war.
Even if he wanted nothing more than to crush the entitled children beneath his boot and let Quinn have her way with them. All of them.
Lazarus sighed, downing the rest of his drink and placing the glass on the desk. It clanked against the hardwood surface, ringing like death’s bell through the empty room. With the burn in his chest and the drowsiness settling in his limbs, Lazarus enjoyed the half hour that glass would give him where his mind and his body were his own . . . and not the beasts within.
Two sharp raps had his muscles tensing again within seconds.
“Who is it?” Lazarus called.
“Petra Stoneskin, Your Grace,” came the slightly muffled response. “I’d like a word, on behalf of my queen.”
Lazarus scrubbed a hand down his face. “Come in.”
The knob turned as the door swung open and in walked the Pirate Queen’s hand. Her braided hair swung back and forth, the wooden beads clanking with each step as she came to stand before him. The lock clicked as the door swung shut behind her. Lazarus motioned to one of the chairs across from him, and Petra instead turned and grabbed a second crystal glass from across the room. She brought it over and took the decanter, filling his first and then her own. She took a seat before bringing the glass to her lips. Her expression was closed off and unreadable as she tipped it back and swallowed a mouthful. Her lips pressed together as she lowered the glass.
“Not bad,” she said thoughtfully, “but I make better.”
Lazarus snorted. “Did you come here to steal and insult my spirits, or was there a purpose to this late evening visit?”
“Can’t I stop by to say thank you for the party you threw my niece?”
“No.”
Petra hummed, taking another sip. “You keep an interesting court, Lazarus, and that’s saying something given the court I come from.”
Lazarus leaned back. “The way I’ve heard it, Imogen has had quite the culling since we last saw her.”
Petra nodded, staring in her glass. “I wasn’t brought back because I wanted to return. I was brought back because she had no one else she trusted enough to take the job.”
Lazarus nodded. “I’d heard that as well.”
“And the rumors?” Petra asked, slowly raising her eyes. “Have you heard those too?”
Lazarus regarded her for a moment, noting her strong jaw and harsh features. Her skin was dark and not unused to the sun, but it didn’t care for the dryer climate of the south. Her age showed more. Her eyes still held a keenness that saw much and revealed little.
“Depends. Which rumors do you speak of?” Lazarus replied, and she grinned, golden and yellowed teeth both on display.
“I might have been away for a long time, but I know better than to fall for that,” she chuckled.
“Well, I’m afraid I cannot confirm or deny without knowing what you speak of,” Lazarus said, “so if that’s all . . .” He raised an eyebrow, indicating that he wasn’t in the mood for more games. Mazzulah knew he played enough because of Quinn.
“The blood heirs,” Petra said, the nonchalance dropping from her tone. “What do you know of them?”
Lazarus peered at her over the lip of his cup as he took a swig, the spirits dulling the souls further. If they were going to have this sort of conversation, he didn’t need them acting out for Petra to see.
“Too much,” he said at first. “Not enough.”
Petra squinted, amusement toying at the corners of her lips. “That doesn’t follow.”
“Neither does your line of questioning,” Lazarus responded. “Imogen’s my ally, so why are we speaking in riddles?”
A smile toyed at the edge of her lips as she sucked the air between her two front teeth and leaned forward. It occurred to him where Axe got that habit. He found it less juvenile and more calculated when Petra did it. She was Imogen’s first mate for decades before being her hand, simply because she was smart enough to be of use, and tough enough to stay alive.
“Are you aware of the proposition Amelia Reinhart plans to offer you?”
Ice shot through his veins while blood went to his head. Lazarus paused, restraining his reaction as the blissfully dulled edge the spirits had taken off sliced through him once more. The monsters beneath his skin writhed in defiance.
“I am.”
“Are you aware of what will happen if you don’t accept?”
“I can guess.” He pressed his lips together and lowered the glass to the table in a firm clink. Lazarus’ eyes were hard as he regarded the woman who sat across from him.
“War, kingling, that’s what happens. Norcasta is divided through the middle, and you’re forced to call upon your allies for help.” Petra drained the last of her glass, never breaking eye contact with him, and then placed it on the desk beside his own.
“If war is the price for me to remake this world, then so be it,” he answered.
Petra smiled at him like she expected him to respond as such.
“The problem, kingling, is you’re not the only one who wishes to remake it.” She gave him a knowing look.
“Imogen—”
“Isn’t who I speak of,” she cut in, interrupting him. Petra raised both eyebrows, and he grimaced.
“Nero,” he said on a heavy sigh.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Nero.” His name hung in the air like an omen to match death’s toll. “Imogen’s spies tell us that a soothsayer whispers in Amelia’s ear. A man that hails from the south.”
Lazarus ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, considering that. “With all due respect to Imogen, not all men are loyal to their place of birth. I know she’s had issues with spies ever since Zorel, but—”
“They shot down a sparrow carrying a message. It was written in Trienian.”
Lazarus lost a heavy breath. The scar over his left eye seemed to burn, if only in memories. “He’s not entering the game just yet, but he plans to.”
“When?” she asked.
Lazarus stared at the water spot on his desk, turning over the possibilities in his mind. The truth was he had only a guess. If Nero truly had his hold on the heirs, then there was only one outcome, and it could happen in a week, in a month, in a year. No matter the attempts at diplomacy—it would happen.
“Soon,” he said eventually.
“And when he does enter?”
Lazarus looked at her and answered.
“There’s no avoiding it. We go to war and hope it’s enough.”
Reinharts’ Welcome
“Jealousy is a monster in and of itself, but so is fear.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, right-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
Leviticus’ eye bore down on them as they waited for the entourage to arrive. Word had reached the palace when the heirs’ carriage crossed the city gates. From there it was a mad frenzy to gather the whole of Lazarus’ house to greet the late king’s children.
Quinn sighed, pulling at the leather strap around her torso where the fabric squeezed her slick skin. While N’skara was no longer her home, she could do without the ungodly heat that pervaded Leone for six months of the year.
“Myori’s wrath, what’s taking them so long?” Quinn griped. “Is the carriage being pulled by children?”
Beside her, Lorraine stifled a laugh. From down near the bottom of the steps, Draeven turned and shot them a look of annoyance. Quinn stared back, lifting both eyebrows. Wariness entered his features, and he turned back to the open gates, waiting for the royal brats they were all spending far too much time coddling. They should have been spending time assessing the reality of the situation.
“Draeven doesn’t seem very pleased with you,” Lorraine murmured softly. Her eyes darted to see if any of the advisors standing several feet away took notice.
“When is he ever?” Quinn scoffed, eyes narrowing as the sound of wheels crunching bits of rock drifted from the uneven streets beyond.
Lorraine inclined her head forward. “He’s seemed unusually cross since the incident at Axe’s party. Did something happen?”
Quinn’s lips curved up in a wicked grin. “You could say that. Our dear Lord Sunshine was simply reminded of his place with certain persons.”
Lorraine lifted both brows and tilted her head. “You mean with your sister.”
“That I do,” Quinn said, her eyes narrowing on the gates as an ebony monstrosity came barreling through. The carriage was larger than any at the palace and was pulled by four stallions, sable-haired and slick with sweat. It was no wonder it took them so long to get here from the city gates.
The carriage rolled to a stop; behind it, a contingent of guards riding horses followed in suit. They poured in from the palace gates, and by the time it ceased, Quinn counted no less than fifty armed men. Uneasiness spread through her chest as she took a step forward, the toe of her boot coming to the very edge of the platform. Ten steps and several soldiers below, Lazarus stood waiting as a stout man jumped off of the front of the carriage and ran around the side to open the door.
Quinn flexed her fingers and black tendrils rushed to them, waiting for their master’s command. She held tight, waiting to see what would happen.
The first one to step out of the carriage was a small, reedy man. His cheeks were gaunt and his dark hair oily enough it clung together in thick strands that brushed just above his cheek bones. He wasn’t skinny, but fortune certainly hadn’t favored him with a bolder physique. While he wore the finest fabrics in his house colors, there was no air of importance about him. Nothing interesting, nor unique. Quinn tilted her head as he shook hands with Lazarus, his eyes scanning the stairs in one motion. He paused upon seeing her, and while there was no reaction on his face, she knew this was his job. To be unremarkable and unseen.
“Erwing Reinhart, Your Grace,” he said in a surprisingly charismatic voice despite his bland appearance. Quinn pursed her lips, but stayed where she was.
“Welcome, Lord Reinhart,” Lazarus said, nodding once.
Behind Erwing, the next person to step out of the carriage was a giant of a man, large enough to dwarf even Vaughn. He was half a head taller than Lazarus and twice as wide. His clothes fit him tighter than they should, making it clear that it was both muscle and fat that accounted for his girth. He had the same dark hair as Erwing, though it was both shorter and cleaner. His eyes glinted red.
Rage thief, Quinn surmised. He lumbered forward, too large to move in a swift or elegant fashion.
“Titus Reinhart,” the man said through gritted teeth. Lazarus assessed him with the same closed off glance he’d used with Erwing.
“Please excuse my brother, Your Grace,” a lovely, silken voice called from the carriage. “The heat must be getting to him.” Quinn narrowed her eyes on the door of the carriage as a dark-haired beauty dressed in spidersilk stepped out. The admiral blue fabric clung to her form, showcasing both curves and the surreptitious swell of her breasts. Smooth, unblemished skin peeked out of the hemline; a shade darker than the desert sands that surrounded them.
