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AFTER SYLVIA LEFT, Kyria ate a quick supper with Quin and then returned to the wardrobe, reading her spellbook by lamplight. Intrigued by a chapter titled Varying Degrees of Magical Power, she flipped to it, speedreading the words: Young witches will need to recite the spells, but more powerful witches just need to think them. She recalled the time she’d healed her legs without a spell and all the plants she’d grown. Perhaps the ghosts were right, and she was a powerful witch. The thought terrified and excited her. What if the power became too intoxicating? What if she turned into a monster, like Ravena or Demendia?
She jumped at the sound of a loud crash, followed by Quin’s terrified scream. Cursing her clumsy braces, she moved as quickly as she could into the other room. A Fae woman was on top of Quin, long fingernails ready to puncture his neck! Quin’s sword had fallen out of his hand, and he was lying on the floor, motionless. Though the Fae had her back to Kyria, she recognized Genevieve’s silver wig.
“You fucking bitch!” she screamed.
The Fae jumped off Quin and faced Kyria, teeth extended into long, dragon-like fangs.
She hissed like a rabid cat. “Kyria.” She covered her mouth with skeletal fingers. “I thought you were at court.”
“I declined to go.” Balling up her fists, she jutted a foot forward. “Now I’m glad I did.”
Quin groaned, his head lolling. Magic burned her hands and made her fingers throb. She fought the urge to attack and heal Quin, but she was unsure if she could take on Genevieve, and she couldn’t risk letting her see her use magic.
“You need to leave,” she said tightly, circling Genevieve like she was trying to corner a wild animal.
The Fae let out a grating laugh that sounded like the shriek of a wounded dragon. “You guard your human pet like he’s a chest of jewels.”
She felt the black magic taking over, the dark energy taking root in her soul. She remembered the time Demendia had used dark magic to choke her, and she knew she could do the same to Genevieve. But what would she do with the body, and how would she and Quin escape?
“He’s not my pet, and you need to leave.”
Her painted purple lip hung down in a pout, revealing white gums and rotting teeth. “How selfish you are not to share him.”
“Go!” she boomed shockingly loud, even to her ears.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, the Fae rolled her eyes. “I’m only leaving out of deference to your grandfather, but you can’t repel me forever.” She walked past her, bumping her shoulder so hard, Kyria’s spine rattled. “I’m far stronger than you, third-blood.”
Kyria stood still, not trusting herself not to kill the Fae as she strode out the door, leaving the horrible stench of a rotting corpse in her wake.
She went to Quin, dropped beside him, and winced at the pain that shot up her legs. She took his face in her hands. “Are you okay?”
His eyes rolled back, and he was unresponsive. There was something sticky and wet on her fingers. She pulled her hands away and saw blood. Holy fuck! Genevieve had tried to kill him!
Get yourself together, Kyria. You can save him. You have to save him! You love him too much to let him die.
She grabbed his head again, closed her eyes, and willed her healing magic to take over. The darkness inside her receded, replaced with light. In her mind, she saw a beautiful display of bright green light exploding like starbursts behind her eyes. When the light faded, she opened her eyes and released him.
He smiled at her. “Hey, sprite,” he drawled. “What happened?”
“I almost lost you!” A strangled sob escaped her, and she threw herself on top of him, reveling in the strong sound of his heart.
He stroked her back. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t and never would be until the Fae were destroyed.
* * *
KEEPING AN EYE ON THE restless crowd in the dining hall, Titus ate his meager stew and crust of bread slowly. From his vantage point at the end of the hall, his table elevated and his back to the roaring hearth, he could watch the others. The supper line was thinning, and he was concerned because the widow Evana and her children had yet to appear. After Theron finished eating, Titus would send him for the family. He would not let them starve on his watch, despite what their men had done.
His breath caught when she finally cracked open one of the two heavy doors at the front of the hall, the hood of her cape pulled low, eyes downcast while she ushered her children inside. A hush fell, and if looks could cause harm, the widow would’ve been filled with daggers. Everyone stopped to glare at the family in their tattered clothes. The babe in her arms cried, reaching for her breast. Placing a finger in the babe’s mouth, she slowly moved toward the serving line, where two elderly widows, Bess and Hilda, cousins whose defenders had been killed in battles long ago, waited for her in front of their cauldron, arms crossed, eyes ablaze.
Titus and Theron rose from their chairs and went to meet them. By the time they reached the line, it was just Evana and her children, pleading with the servers with empty bowls.
“Starve me if you must,” Evana cried, “but please feed my children.”
When Bess raised her wooden spoon as if to strike her, Titus stepped between them. “No one will starve. She gets the same rations as the rest of us.”
“We wouldn’t have to ration if not for her traitorous husbands,” Hilda said with a snarl.
Titus gave the woman a long, cool look. “They have already paid for their crimes.”
“She knew!” Bess shrieked. “She fed them porridge with stolen grain!”
Theron snatched the threatening spoon from Bess’s hands, eliciting shocked gasps from both the matrons. Clucking his tongue, Theron waved the spoon at her. “Listen to your general,” he said, handing it to Titus.
Titus eyed both women. “You will serve them as you serve us. Do I make myself clear?” Without waiting for an answer, he handed the spoon back to Bess.
Hilda snatched the bowl from Evana and filled it, then shoved it back at her. “Take your food and go to your hut. You will not eat with us.” Slapping her palm with the end of her spoon, the old woman gave Titus a challenging look.
He was in no mood to battle the old crows. “Come,” he said to Evana while the women filled the children’s bowls. “I will walk with you.” He snatched the end of a loaf of bread off the cutting board and ushered the family from the hall. “Keep them in line until I get back,” he whispered to Theron.
“Yes, General.” Theron chuckled, patting Titus on the back.
When they were outside, Titus breathed in the salty air. The snowstorm had abated, and warmer air again blew in from the south. He should’ve been relieved, but warmer air brought dragons.
“You don’t have to walk us,” she whispered as they wound their way between the huts and through the icy slush on the muddy road.
“You won’t make it without me.” He was surprised they’d made it to the dining hall without being assaulted. He gave a challenging look to a trio of young defenders who glowered at the family. Shields slung across their backs, noses swollen and red, they were returning from their watch on the cliffs, the worst of all the duty assignments because of the biting wind.
They reached the smallest and shabbiest hut in the center of the square. Knowing the women and children weren’t as equipped to defend themselves, the widows’ huts had been placed in the center of the fortress in case of dragon attacks.
At the door Evana handed the baby to the oldest girl and ushered her children inside, blocking the entrance. “Thank you for accompanying us, General. We can manage from here.”
He placed a hand against the door. “May I come in?” He had nothing particular to say to her, but he wanted to gauge the mood of her oldest boy. He didn’t want to have to send the boy away, but if he threatened the safety of the defenders, Titus would have no choice.
Her face fell. “We have no grain other than what we were given.”
“I know,” he said, refusing to back down.
“Very well.” She backed up, holding the door open for him.
The small hut had no table or beds, only a few threadbare furs placed around the fire and an old wooden cradle. Titus repressed a curse. Caius had said the widow and her children were all moved in. What he’d failed to mention was that their furniture hadn’t made it. Other families had probably already divvied up the spoils. He would have to make it right. These children didn’t deserve to sleep on a hard floor because of their fathers’ sins.
The younger children sat on the furs with their meager meals. The oldest girl balanced her bowl in one hand and rocked the baby’s cradle with the other. The oldest boy stood with his back pressed against the wall, watching Titus with keen eyes.
“Children,” Evana said, “eat quietly while I speak with the general.”
“Yes, Mama,” they answered, except for the oldest boy, who looked like he had something to say.
Evana ushered Titus to the other end of the cramped hut. Toying with the hem of her worn cape, she looked up at him with watery eyes. “Are you going to put us out?”
Titus gaped at her a moment. “Put you out where?”
“Outside the wall. I’ve heard rumors.”
Damn his men. He knew the mood of Periculi was tense, with two battles looming and the grain shortage, but he would not tolerate cruelty toward this family. Evana was more of a victim of her husbands’ heavy-handedness than they were.
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
“It’s a death sentence,” she said, bottom lip trembling, “and you know it.”
“I’m not putting you out.”
She turned to her children. “Many families are calling for it.”
“I don’t care what many families say.”
“We are not going to be a burden. I can cook and sew. Jason, my oldest boy, is fourteen.” She glanced at him, standing by the hearth. He was still staring at Titus. “He wants to join the defenders.”
Titus grimaced. “Fourteen is a bit young.”
Determination in his hard-set jaw, the boy crossed over to them. “Alexi Faustus was only fifteen when he joined. I’ll be fifteen this summer.”
Titus didn’t want to turn Jason away, but he also didn’t want to put a child in harm’s way. “Alexi was an exception to the rule.”
The boy turned up his chin. “I want to serve the defenders.”
He regarded Jason for a long moment. He saw no malice in his eyes, only gritty determination. He remembered Alexi Faustus having a similar look when he first arrived at Periculi with his uncle, General Faustus. Titus, Theron, and Quin had been among the new recruits as well, but they were three years older than Alexi. A few men had challenged the general for bringing a boy to their camp. The very next day Alexi had slain a dragon, and Titus knew he wanted him in his unit. Alexi was also part Fae, giving him superior strength and speed. Jason was short and stocky like his fathers. He wouldn’t move as swiftly as Alexi. It wouldn’t be prudent giving him a sword, but if King Milas was advancing on Periculi, the defenders would need every available sword they could get, even if a boy wielded it.
“Most defenders will not trust you with a sword.” He would not mislead Jason. He had to know what he would face.
He nodded, his mouth a grim slash in his ruddy features. “Because of what my fathers did?”
“Do you understand the severity of their actions?” he asked, though he suspected Jason understood perfectly well. Titus had not forgotten Jason kicking the sword out of Pavo’s grasp. It had taken a lot of courage to defy his father.
“I do, and had you buried them instead of throwing them in the sea, I’d be spitting on their graves now.” Rage swirled in his eyes. “For fourteen years I watched them beat and sodomize my mother.”
Evana gasped. “Jason, do not speak of such things.”
“I’m not a boy, Mother. I will speak man-to-man with the general. I know I can never right the wrongs done by my fathers, but I do not wish our family to be a burden to you. Give me a sword, and I will fight for the defenders.”
Titus was pleased when he didn’t see any cracks in Jason’s stoic façade. “You will need training before we can give you a sword.”
“Put me to use, sir,” Jason pleaded, a slight crack in his voice betraying his youth. “I will not let you down.”
“Very well,” Titus reluctantly said. “Report for training at first light.”
Being a defender wasn’t just a means of righting the wrongs done by his fathers, but a way to support his family. The course he’d chosen wouldn’t be easy. He doubted another unit would want him because of his fathers’ taint, which meant he’d be a lone soldier, having no brothers-in-arms to watch his back. Titus had spent most of his life as a slave. He knew what it was like to have only himself to rely on. Then General Faustus had discovered him in the arena, forced to fight other warriors, and even a few injured and thirsty dragons, to the death as sport for the wealthy. When Faustus offered him his freedom in exchange for service, his choice had been easy. For the first time he’d finally had others he could rely on, a family of brothers who’d give their lives for him.
After Titus left their hut, he detoured to the cliffs, shielding his eyes from the piercing rays of the setting sun. The sky was lit in brilliant pinks and purples, casting a rainbow of colors across the water. He wondered what color the sky was in Fae Kingdom, and if Kyria and his brothers-in-arms were safe. He greeted the guards on watch, resigned when they reported seeing several splashes in the distance.
He took the brass telescope, a relic from the Fae that enabled him to see a great distance, from one of the watchmen. Extending it, he looked through the glass and cursed softly when he saw sunlight reflecting off green and blue scales. Handing the telescope back to the unit’s commander, he ordered him to double the watch. The dragons were coming.
* * *
HOLDING TIGHTLY TO Quin’s hand, Kyria sat on the balcony, watching for Sylvia. The candle flickered in the window.
The Fae moved like a whisper, a soft shadow slipping inside the balcony window. She jumped off the railing with the dexterity of a cat, landing on all fours in a crouch. Though Kyria loved the nickname Titus had given her, Sylvia was more deserving of the sprite moniker, with her small stature and acrobatic skills.
Rising to her feet, she said, “I came as fast as I could, Your Highness.”
Kyria refused to let go of Quin’s hand while he ate a slice of buttered bread. He still had crusted blood in his hair, but she’d healed his injury. She shuddered to think what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been there to stop the evil Fae. “Genevieve attacked Quin.”
Sylvia knelt beside him, looking at the dried blood on his neck. “Are you all right?”
He shrugged. “Kyria saved me.” He had a big, goofy grin, as if he wasn’t concerned that an evil vampyre had just tried to kill him.
“We want to leave this island now, Sylvia,” Kyria said sternly.
She nodded. “Marcello just got word that the Fae King is sending our ships in the morning.”
Her chest tightened with anticipation and dread, for getting on a ship would be another battle. Grandfather didn’t want to let her go, and she suspected keeping her here wasn’t to protect her. He wanted to control her, use her to his advantage, or slit her throat. “We can’t wait until morning.
“We have to,” Sylvia said, patting her knee. “Hold on for just a few more hours.”
“I need to know which guards are loyal to us. I need to know how she got in.”
Sylvia arched a blonde brow. “Don’t you know?”
“I was in my wardrobe, and Quin doesn’t remember.” She fanned her face at the mixture of noxious smells of sickeningly sweet flowers, combined with the stench of Genevieve’s rotting breath. “This place still reeks of that bitch.”
Quin still looked dazed as he slowly ate his bread, and she worried he wasn’t quite recovered. If that perfume put her brother in a stupor on a daily basis, she was sure it had the same effect on Quin.
“The perfume is bewitched,” Sylvia said as she walked the perimeter of the room. “Allura has a strong effect on people, men in particular, but when a mage puts an enchantment on it, it’s even stronger.”
“Are you saying Ravena bewitched Genevieve’s perfume?”
“No doubt,” she answered. “What do you think they’ve been doing to your brother?” Sylvia pointed to the big, brass knob on the door. “The lock is broken.” Grabbing a chair, she jammed it under the handle.
“How?” Kyria asked, alarmed that someone could so easily break into her chamber.
“Do you understand how powerful first-bloods are?” Sylvia crossed to them. “A door will not stop them.”
Fuck. No wonder they needed a mage to destroy them if a powerful warrior like Quin couldn’t defend himself against one skinny, decrepit Fae.
“Give us until tomorrow morning,” Sylvia said. “And we will get you off this island. The second-bloods are ready to go, too.”
“And if my grandfather refuses to let me go?” she asked.
“Oh, he will refuse,” Sylvia said with a laugh. “We will just have to defy him.”
Kyria’s gut soured. That’s what she was afraid of.