Chapter 38

Evangeline

EVANGELINE’S HEART RATCHETED against her ribcage. Vane walked beside her like a hungry wolf prowling the main hallways. Her hands and legs shook, her mind filled with images of herself tripping over her dress, smearing her makeup, or ripping the precious fabric. Doing something that would give Vane the excuse to slap her, cut her, or break a bone in the hand he currently squeezed. Tightly.

When Vane had first entered the guest room, Evangeline’s legs had turned to liquid. If she hadn’t clutched the bed for support, she would’ve collapsed to the floor. Before Evangeline could lock eyes with the Rathan—who now looked like his former brown-haired, beady-eyed self, versus a beast—Aimee stepped between them.

Officer Jarr, a pleasure, they had said with a controlled tone that told everyone in the room who was in charge. I’m glad you decided to follow through. Obey me in this, and I will grant you free rein for whatever . . . activities you wish to pursue. When fake-Sehn turned to Evangeline, she saw the real Caster underneath for the second time. A glimpse of their expression. Cold and unfeeling, like someone who’d killed and manipulated anyone and anything to get to where they stood. This Council member knew what Vane did to Evangeline, knew the terror he incited in her, and they were using it to their advantage.

Now, Vane Jarr was her escort to the execution.

To ensure you don’t change your mind, dear, Aimee had said, as if Evangeline needed another incentive to not watch the king remove her friend’s head from his shoulders. As if running away in a castle swarming with Nytes on her tail would ever end in her favor. No, this was a reminder for Evangeline to keep her head down and her mouth shut. About everything.

So now, here she was, flush against the Rathan that made her knuckles bleed white from how hard she clenched them and her stomach settle in her throat, as they skated through the influx of people. On any normal day, everyone, Nyte and human alike, would be scrambling to get away from Vane, but the halls were more crowded than it had been for the princes’ banquet. Hot, sticky bodies cramped the castle, wall to wall, and if Evangeline thought about it for too long, she was going to hyperventilate.

More than several turned their way as Vane and the two guards escorting them elbowed through the crowd. Nytes glared at them until they caught sight of Peredia’s most notorious torturer—the last stop for misbehaving humans or unlucky Nytes who thought to betray the crown—and turned away. A few Nytes brushed by, close enough to give her a handful of pinches to her arms and waist. She hissed in pain as Vane wrenched her through the sweaty mass. Over the pounding footsteps, distant music, and clattering trays of humans passing by with hot meals for the after-event—only Peredians would have an appetite after watching someone be hacked in two—whispers pricked Evangeline’s ears.

“They haven’t even buried Ryker yet and she’s already found a new master,” someone snickered.

“Look at the pretty pet, all dressed up,” others chimed in.

“She’ll play for anyone, it seems. Even Vane.”

An Aerian woman snagged her arm, scratching it deep enough for red lines to puff up from where the nails tore into her skin. Vane yanked Evangeline to his side as the two guards shoved the Aerian lady away. Evangeline hated execution days. As unavoidable as the death of some poor soul, so was the plague of bloodthirstiness that possessed every Nyte (and even some humans) during these events. Evangeline didn’t know what frightened her more: the mass of bloodthirsty Nytes, or Vane, whose growl rang in her ears as his nails drew blood where he gripped her forearm. She kept waiting for him to turn back into that beast and rip out of his gray coat and matching slacks. No chain dangled from him like other Peredians, but the stark, swirling Castanian symbols were blatant on his chest, matching the parallel markings roving across his shaven head. He didn’t even bother trying to hide it.

The guards did their job of protecting them from the masses. Evangeline could hardly hear herself think, her arm burning from where that woman had attacked her and Vane’s grip. Her heart pounded so hard she struggled to breathe. She was used to the contemptuous looks, the snide remarks, but being next to Vane with no hope of safety in sight, she felt like a glass doll being fought over by spoiled children.

“Where is Sehn?” Evangeline worked up the courage to ask. It was the only thing she had said to Vane since she’d laid eyes on him in the guest room.

She yelped when his grip tightened. “It’s His Highness, you ill-mannered pet.” Then he smiled, his two incisors longer than usual—or maybe she imagined that. “Why? Not enjoying my company?”

His breath smacked into her cheek. Garlic wafted up her nostrils. She was going to vomit, and not just from the sheer terror gripping her insides.

“Listen up, pet. His Highness put me in charge, so if you disobey me, or do anything to compromise our situation, I will slit you open in front of the entire city. You understand?”

Evangeline was still reeling from his breath, the loud murmur of people, and the sweat and blood she tasted in the air. He jostled her, and her neck snapped back. “Yes, my lord.” It was a whisper, but she couldn’t be sure with everything and everyone ringing in her ears.

He continued, “When we enter the throne room, we will sit near the front with the rest of the royal family.” His lip curled, and he muttered, “Useless, empty-headed sacks of flesh.” Razor blades cascaded down her spine at the menace in it. “Next to the cousins and wives and any other fool who scrambled to claim a royal title, we’ll be closest to the king and away from the masses. In the middle of the service, right before the ax falls, you will do as you’re told.”

Before the execution, Aimee still hadn’t given Evangeline much of a plan, except a weapon to use prior to leaving the guest suite. It was small, the size of her palm, but heavier than it looked, made of black metal. A gun, something in her mind told her. It was the same weapon those humans had used on Anali, Evangeline, and Jaden in her hallucination—memory—the night before she left for the west wing. Aimee had showed her how to hold it, gripping the curved handle while a single digit wrapped around the lever attached to it.

When you are ready, and only when you are absolutely ready, you will aim this at the king and pull this trigger. Make sure you’re close enough, and you may have to fire more than once to ensure the deed is done.

To show her, they had cocked the gun and pulled the trigger, releasing something too fast for her to follow with her eyes, before the lamp next to her shattered. Aimee then handed it to her, the weight of it like five hardback novels in her palm. The only thing coursing through her mind was how in spitting blazes was she going to do this.

Think of it like an automated bow and arrow, the Caster had said. But you won’t need to worry too much about your aim. I’ve magicked one of the king’s necklaces. All bullets in that gun will go for it like a magnet.

Evangeline stared at the dangerously innocuous weapon. It looked harmless, but she knew anything Caster-made was far from that. It was also loud. Obvious. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Aimee didn’t care if everyone knew she was the king’s killer, making it nearly impossible for her to hope for any means of escape after this ordeal.

And when they hear this . . . Evangeline had glared at Aimee. They’ll know it was me who killed the king.

They didn’t deny it; in fact, they smiled. Sacrifices need to be made, my dear. Your life, or Ceven’s?

Did the Council agree to this? Aimee didn’t respond, and Evangeline wondered if the Caster was going to have her killed after all, despite the Council’s wishes to keep her alive. Or at least that was what she concluded.

Evangeline inhaled the swirling mix of perfume and sweat, drawing her back to the present. She had strapped the gun to her thigh with a firm leather band, the metal cool against her skin. Aimee had picked this dress purposely, the drapes of fabric layered to hide the gap for Evangeline to swiftly pull out her weapon. Despite everything, a part of her still hoped for a happy ending. One where she and Ceven survived and lived in that cottage far, far away. Like Lani always said, she was a fool. At least if she died—more like when she died—Evangeline would get to see her friend again. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, ignoring the pain, the fear, and the blasted unfairness of it all.

No, she wouldn’t be a spitting sacrifice, and neither was Ceven. She would get her vengeance and make it out of here alive with her friend. Even if it meant losing herself, she’d sooner release that darkness inside than go out without a fight.

Vane dragged her to the narrow, arched doors leading to the throne room, where two humans struggled to hold open the thick wood amongst the sea of gowns and frilly frocks. Evangeline had been to the throne room twice in her entire life. These executions were rare, and she’d been told by Ryker that the throne room had long been abandoned for any other purpose, since King Calais had abolished the need for tithes to the crown that had occurred in past reigns. King Calais was the first to provide a fair tax to all Nytes in Peredia, as Ryker always praised him for. Evangeline had sat there, her head bowed, thinking it didn’t matter because she was still a human with no rights.

 Aside from the last execution Ryker had forced her to attend—an assassin that had almost killed the king, a scar hidden underneath the king’s long hair and high collared robes being proof of that—her earliest memory was when she’d first been brought to the castle. Nobody knew her actual age, and she guessed she could have been four in human years, when a couple of Nytes from the neighboring town brought her forth in front of the king and queen. All she could remember was feeling so small in the large room. She had reached out to touch the throne, mesmerized by its beauty, before being slapped so hard it threw her off her feet. She felt the sting of it for days to come. It was her first encounter with the king. Her fingers curled inward; her teeth clenched tight. She wished she could make him suffer like he had Lani, but she would have to be content with a bullet through his heart instead.

They stopped, and Vane yanked on her hair hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Stand up straight and keep your eyes on the prize. This won’t work if you’re cowering,” he barked.

Evangeline forced her hands to her sides rather than massaging where Vane had pulled on her hair. Despite everything, she still felt pathetically human. Helpless, despite the weapon strapped to her side and the darkness buzzing in her gut.

The throne room was as big as she remembered it. An enormously large, elongated room, if you could even call it one at this point. Pristine white marble covered the floor and walls. Large sculpted columns aligned in a row, parallel to each other, from the entryway down to the two golden thrones sitting atop the raised platform. The windows stretched as tall as the high ceilings, each adorned with a mosaic piece representing a story of Peredia’s history. Some showed Aerian’s faces, others blood and war, the red crystal glass shining like fire from the fading sunlight dripping in. But the most disconcerting thing to Evangeline was the synchronization of hundreds of faces turning to stare at them. The pleasant buzz of conversations swarming the room died at the sight of them.

Evangeline’s throat convulsed, and she swore it echoed in the large room.

Vane waved and cast a wicked smile at the crowd, who turned away, scared to draw his attention, but their eyes still lingered sideways on her. More callous whispers greeted her. Ceven may be taking the fall for Ryker’s murder, but everyone suspected she was to blame. That she had forced the prince to do her bidding. It was funny how they cursed her for being a weak human yet believed her to have the power to bring a prince to his knees.

Then again, now she had the power to bring a king to his knees as well.

If Evangeline had been holding on to Vane’s arm like the other Nyte couples here, the slickness of her palms would’ve had difficulty finding purchase on his crisp coat. At least his tight grip kept her from falling to the floor.

She couldn’t do this. It was too much. She didn’t want to die.

 Deep breaths, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. You can do this. You will do this. For Ceven. Even for Raiythlen, the blasted bastard.

Rows of wood benches with velvet cushions bordered the large floor runner that Vane and Evangeline walked down, getting closer and closer to the thrones—but only one would be occupied. This close, Evangeline was almost blinded by the sheer perfection of it. Made of solid gold, the throne sat tall and imposing. The arms and the legs were bejeweled with priceless stones that shone brightly, as if they were polished daily. The top of the throne had two small wings engraved, in symbolism of the Aerians that had taken over Peredia centuries ago.

Vane led her to the second-to-front row. The place was full of Nytes and almost as many guards, who stood along the back walls of the room. The Royal Guard clustered around the front, closest to the throne. Evangeline didn’t see a familiar pair of deep purple or blue-and-gray wings. Not that she expected either of them to be here. Xilo was probably long gone, and Tarry surely fought back to protect Ceven. She just hoped the old Aerian wasn’t killed for it, or worse, already dead.

In front of the thrones was an ax, the blade ten times the size of her head with a hilt encrusted with expensive jewels, impractical for battle. It was the king’s executioner weapon, reminding Evangeline that this wasn’t just any occasion; it was a public slaughtering. Prince Ceven and Raiythlen’s executions.

“These are my favorite events,” Vane whispered in her ear, and Evangeline jolted out of her seat. Doubt clouded her thoughts. She wrung her hands, sweat oozing from her pores, beads of it running down her skin and cooling like the tip of Vane’s blades slicing across her chest, hands, and arms. How could she kill the king when she couldn’t even stop herself from shaking?

“I can’t do this.” She squeezed the words out over the boulder in her throat.

“Yes, you can. And you will.” Vane released her, and her arm prickled painfully where the blood flowed back. But his next words froze her blood in place. “Because if you don’t, you’ll be next in line to be executed.”