Chapter 14
Bellanca hadn’t meant to fall asleep when she’d dragged her mattress into Carver’s room and lain down next to his bed. Between the anger boiling inside her and the confused, anxious clenching of her heart, she wasn’t sure how she’d even closed her eyes, let alone drifted off. But as she opened heavy lids to pale moonlight streaming in, it was clear she’d slept deeply and for a few hours.
She tried to sit up, but something weighed down her head. Lifting her gaze, she found Carver’s arm draping off his bed and his hand tangled in her hair. Her eyes widened, her chest bunching into a hard knot. He’d wrapped a whole lock around his fist.
Frozen in place, she breathed as quietly as she could with her hard-beating pulse hurtling something close to desperation through her veins. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to fight—with each other, for each other, for the gods who’d mandated them, for Atlantis, side by side—until they died. Fighting was what she did.
From the floor, she could see most of Carver’s sleeping face at the edge of his mattress. Dark was never really dark here. Moonlight always seemed to reflect off the harbor and bounce straight into their rooms. Everything about his face was angular—jaw, nose, cheekbones—and she knew he could cut with a harsh look as easily as with a sword. And yet… The same face she’d known for months now seemed different in so many ways. Since the day they met, they’d been tangled together like two thorn bushes competing for the same space to grow, in each other’s hair and at each other’s throats, testing one another, challenging, goading, protecting, provoking… Now, he was really in her hair, and it felt completely different. Their time in Atlantapol had changed too much.
Her body tightened, her blood heating as she lay there, letting herself feel the weight of his hand and the beat of her heart. How had this happened? She wasn’t supposed to want to lean into his touch. She was supposed to want to singe his fingers one by one until he stormed off in a huff.
Reaching up, she carefully untangled Carver’s hand from her hair. Because of his injured back, he slept on his stomach, his soot-black hair sweeping his forehead. She sat up, watching to make sure he didn’t stir. He looked so peaceful. That wasn’t really him, though. Carver’s blood ran just as hot as hers. Sometimes he hid it better. Sometimes he didn’t. But they were both always on the verge of eruption, as if they sprang from the same volcano. It was what drew them together and then blew them apart, over and over.
Scooting back from his bed, Bellanca flicked a concerned look over him as he slept. His bandages were still neat and in place, his strong shoulders bare and undamaged, unlike the skin in the middle of his back. She resisted the urge to smooth his hair away from his face. She couldn’t risk waking him, and tenderness wasn’t really in her nature. She’d stuck to pure efficiency as she’d coated his back in honey and wrapped clean bandages around him even though she’d sensed Carver wanting something more from her, something softer. Maybe softness was something she could learn. But maybe not. She hadn’t been able to dredge up an iota of softness as she’d taken care of him as best she could, her whole mind and body focused on revenge.
Had Carver feared she’d retaliate and wrapped her hair around his fist before he fell completely asleep to try to keep her at home with him? Or had he just wanted to touch her, to hold some part of her in his hand?
Her heart still beating too hard for comfort, she stood and backed toward the door. Would Carver be more furious that she’d acted without him or that she’d sedated him? She hadn’t seen a way to do the first without the latter, but she’d treaded lightly with the dried herbs she’d disguised in his soup—so lightly she’d apparently fallen asleep before he had.
But now, Carver didn’t stir as she crept from his room and tiptoed to hers. The moderate dose of soporific plants must’ve finally taken hold, and she couldn’t regret giving them to him. He’d get a good night’s sleep without constant awareness of the pain he was in, and she could slip out unnoticed.
Once she left Carver’s room, it was easier to focus on what came next. She pulled on nondescript clothing—a plain tunic, pants, and boots. She strapped knives to her belt and a sword on her back, wishing she was better with the weapons and hoping she wouldn’t have to draw them. Her fire usually did the trick, and when her magic wasn’t enough, Carver always finished things off.
But not tonight. This time, Carver would rest and heal, and she’d punish Eryx and rescue Cleito on her own.
The Chaos Wizard might’ve already given them the information they needed to find the Shard of Olympus, but it wasn’t only about what they needed from Cleito. It was about what Cleito needed from them, and Bellanca refused to abandon her or let her suffer a second longer.
As a final precaution, she wet her hair and soaked a long cloth in water. She wrapped the sodden fabric around her entire head and neck, leaving only her mouth and eyes free. She had no illusions she’d flame up, and she wasn’t about to risk burning herself under the automaton helmet. Her own clothing didn’t burn—that was an integral part of her gods’-given magic—but she wasn’t certain that wearing the harpy head meant the metal wouldn’t heat up around her. She’d made mistakes—plenty of them—but she didn’t make the same ones twice. She learned and adjusted.
She left their lodgings without checking on Carver. If he’d woken up, he would’ve said something. A deep hood covered her wrapped head. She slung a bag containing the harpy helmet over her shoulder. The streets of Atlantapol turned out to be eerie in the dead of night, too calm and quiet. Calm and quiet made her skin crawl. She needed flames and noise and conflict and chaos. She never questioned herself in the middle of a battle. It was all action and reaction. There was no time to doubt or second-guess.
Not like right now, when she wondered how catastrophically Carver would react when he found out she’d done this without him.
Pulling her shoulders back, she walked on. Carver shouldn’t even be here. Atlantis was her mission.
The walk to the castle was mostly uphill, and Bellanca stopped to catch her breath before she got close enough to be seen by the guards at the outer gate. She took in the imposing structure. She knew the layout from Carver. Main gate. Courtyard. Second entrance. Throne room to the right. Dining and private rooms to the left. Big staircase in the middle.
Beyond that, she wasn’t sure of anything. Eryx was a family of one, so if worse came to worst, she’d just go up the stairs and search for the only rooms that looked occupied. Chances were, she’d find Cleito close to Eryx.
But if all went well, she wouldn’t need to blindly navigate the upper floors of the castle.
The original plan with Carver had involved fighting their way in and snatching Cleito. It might still come to that, but while she’d lain by his bedside as nighttime claimed the island, she’d thought of a different way to get what she wanted.
The certainty she’d been missing earlier settled over her. She donned the harpy helmet and wiggled it into place to clear her vision of the beak-like nose piece and hard cheek sections. Most people would probably be afraid, but she couldn’t find it in her to fear Eryx or anything she might find here. She was angry. She had purpose, and if there was one thing that made her feel secure in life, it was having a clear objective. The only thing that made this task tricky was not wanting to kill everyone who got in her way. The castle guards were her future army—or at least the already trained men in it. No women, of course, but she’d change that, and she wanted as many soldiers as she could inherit from Eryx. She wanted all of them.
Ready to take what she’d come for tonight, Bellanca hid her bag behind the laurel bushes lining the street before stepping out from the shadows. Still wearing the voluminous cloak that grazed her ankles, she walked in the middle of the wide cobbled road, straight toward the castle, unhurried. The half-dozen nighttime guards outside the main gate saw her and watched. She stopped a few paces from them, and they shifted nervously.
She waited, tension crackling in the night air like unseen lightning. She wanted these soldiers sweating before they even heard her voice. She wanted them scared before she moved closer.
Her cloak floated around her like dark fog on the sea. The helmet would reflect the moonlight. She let out just a little bit of fire, an orange-red glow that would line the edges of her body and shine through the helmet’s empty eye sockets. She might not look like a real harpy, but she definitely looked like someone’s nightmare.
The guards all grouped together, murmuring uneasily. Weapons out, they backed toward the closed gate. She heard low-voiced prayers. Poseidon. Poseidon. They’d do better to entreat her . She was the dangerous one here.
“I am an emissary from Zeus, All Powerful.” Not exactly false. Not entirely true, either. “I require an audience with King Eryx and his oracle, Cleito.” Her voice resonated inside the helmet, deeper. She sounded formidable. Calm. She was both those things, although the calm was the kind held tight in the palm of a hand. If she opened her fingers, she could burn everything down.
The guards huddled in front of the lowered portcullis. Finally, the one who seemed to be in charge nodded. He rapped on the gate, ordering it open. The guards inside the gatehouse complied, and the metal grate slowly lifted.
Bellanca strode forward, passing underneath the iron-tipped teeth of the entryway as it opened. No one tried to touch her. Behind her, the gate clanged to a halt at its pinnacle. She headed straight for the castle entrance across the courtyard. The guards hurried to catch up to her, surrounding her but keeping their distance. She resisted looking around or at any of them. Her measured stride and utter focus ahead would terrify every single one of them. Not giving them a second glance meant she didn’t fear them at all. And she didn’t.
She repeated her exact same words to the next half-dozen guards at the castle entrance. They took less time to react, the gate guards spurring them on and sweating as if it were the middle of the day and not the middle of the night.
The soldiers ushered her into the throne room. Bellanca waited again, still and silent. The only thing she allowed herself to truly look at was Eryx’s opulent throne in front of the wide, north-facing windows. The dark outline of Mount Olympus blotched the night sky in the distance. Eyeing the high-backed golden chair with its ornate armrests and bloodred cushions, she imagined herself sitting there. Her lip curled. Eryx’s throne was garish, looked uncomfortable, and it was single . She’d set a pair of comfortable chairs on the dais, because ruling alone was her nightmare.
She didn’t wait long, but the guards made the unfortunate mistake of waking one of Eryx’s in-castle advisors instead of waking the king himself. She’d asked for Eryx—and Cleito—and not the middle-aged man who nervously approached her, hesitant and obsequious. Had he handed the whip to Eryx today? How many times over the years had he hurt or frightened Cleito?
“How can I be of service?” He tilted his head down and to the side, spreading his hands a little as if wanting her to produce a name for herself. He watched her carefully, his cold, snakelike eyes a brownish-olive she recognized as a lesser shade of Magoi green. Bellanca’s eyes had always been a bit bluer than anything else and had fooled more than one Magoi into thinking she wasn’t that powerful. Right now, there was no contest. Only one of them had magic.
She shot forward and grabbed him by the throat. He gasped, his eyes widening. This man would never be a part of her court or her army. Her only use for this mud-eyed weasel was as a deterrent to any guards who might want to play Eryx’s hero.
In the blink of an eye, fire licked her hand, and the stink of burning flesh filled her nostrils. The advisor struggled violently, twisting and trying to break her grip. She held on, burning him until her handprint would mark him for life, and then shoved him away from her.
“I did not summon you.” She deepened her voice, each word resonating ominously beneath her helmet. She circled the advisor, her steps slow and calculated. He huddled on the floor, his head down. But then his eyes flicked up, seething with anger. With envy . This man wanted magic back as much as Eryx, and he’d stop at nothing.
She glowed a little hotter, brighter, hate for him and everyone like him boiling inside her. She’d only killed in battle—and she considered it a battle, the day she’d burned down her brother. This was the first time she’d wanted to kill someone just for the sake of ridding the worlds of him.
Before she could do her worst, she pivoted and found the guard who’d seemed to be in charge at the castle entrance. “Bring me King Eryx and his oracle, Cleito.” She’d just used magic. She doubted anyone would try to placate her with another advisor.
Even as he nodded, the guard’s focus shifted to something behind her. It was the warning she needed to whirl and dodge the knife the advisor slashed out at her. In response, she threw out her hand and willed a small pulse of sun-flare magic toward her attacker. It came out mixed with her usual fire and slammed into his face, melting it. He dropped, his head a steaming heap in a cradle of bone on the marble.
Bellanca stared. That wasn’t quite what she’d intended. She’d found the bright thread of her new magic deep inside her, but she hadn’t managed to separate it from the magic she was used to as she called it forward. The added surge threw off her aim. She’d targeted the advisor’s chest. Either way, it was a death sentence, and in the end, an exploded head sent an even stronger message.
The guards in the room raised the alarm immediately. They scattered, surrounding her. Bellanca stayed where she was, careful not to look like she wanted to attack any of them. She’d retaliate, but she didn’t want to hurt anyone if she didn’t have to.
And the king would still come to her. She was sure of it.
Eryx finally arrived—unfortunately with his entire nighttime garrison.
He approached warily, leaving several paces between them. Cleito trailed behind him, half-hidden, her head bowed and her pale arms wrapped around her shivering, too-thin body. Bellanca took in the Chaos Wizard’s long, lank hair, dirty, bare feet, and threadbare nightgown. Shock and outrage hit her, but oddly, it was mostly pride that surged through her like a rush of hot, powerful magic. Cleito had endured, survived. Even while scared and abused and lost in her own head most of the time, she resisted .
As much as she wanted to stare at Cleito, Bellanca forced her attention to Eryx. He held Cleito’s leash in one hand and his sword in the other. She’d never seen him up close before. Objectively, he was handsome—in a cold, hard way. Chips of ice in his Magoi eyes. A sharp, short beard. High cheekbones. He looked athletic and strong and would’ve been quite a catch if he wasn’t a vicious son of a Cyclops. Just like her brother Galen.
Galen had used magic for terrible things. She had no doubt Eryx would do the same the moment he had the power within him.
Zeus abruptly rose in her esteem. He’d moved pawns around for generations to increase the chances of bringing unity and peace back to Thalyria. He’d waited far too long to help give Thalyrians leaders who cared about their welfare, but at least he’d finally set plans into motion and manipulated outcomes in favor of sane and compassionate rulers who’d managed to oust the rotten ones, kingdom by kingdom. She wasn’t surprised Zeus hadn’t given magic back to Atlantis yet. With Eryx in charge, she wouldn’t, either.
Except she would—briefly. She still believed that fighting Magoi to Magoi was the only way to obtain an indisputable transition of power. But maybe that was just her Thalyrian roots speaking, and here, it didn’t matter.
Bellanca waited for Eryx to talk first, flaming softly inside her cloak and helmet. As she’d feared, her magic heated the metal, but the discomfort was worth the eerie show she knew she was putting on. She hoped it would spare lives, although not Eryx’s in the long run. Cleito shuffled to the side, coming out of his shadow. She looked up, and Bellanca hissed in a breath, her magic abruptly flickering. The two women locked eyes, the Chaos Wizard’s swirling with magic. Bellanca’s widened. Why hadn’t Carver told her? She always felt so different here, but Cleito looked just like her.
“You asked for me?” Eryx cocked his head in question, a brow lifting. “My la—”
“Your Highness,” Bellanca interrupted. She didn’t expand upon her answer. It would be clear soon enough. In the meantime, Eryx could wonder.
Eryx’s back stiffened. “To what do we owe your…visit?”
“It’s come to Zeus’s attention that you’ve been abusing the only magic he offered this island in generations.” Her glowing, helmeted gaze flicked to Cleito before returning to Eryx. She wanted to look longer, harder, but now wasn’t the time. She’d known about Cleito’s red hair—an oddity in Atlantis—but what about the rest? Hadn’t Carver noticed? “Since you do not value his gift, he’s reclaiming it. I’m here to take your oracle and inform you that the gods are watching. Magic will only return to Atlantis when the gods are pleased with it.”
Eryx’s thin mouth pinched. “I work daily to please them.”
“You work daily to please yourself . Nothing you do is for the gods—or for your island.”
“How dare you presume—”
“I presume nothing. I see . Zeus reclaims Cleito. Give her to me, and this night can end without bloodshed.” Eryx’s tense gaze swept over his dead advisor. Bellanca looked, too. “Or perhaps his fate interests you,” she said smoothly.
His dark glare hardened. “You threaten the king?”
“Monarchies rise and fall like the tide. Nature doesn’t care what it washes away.” She paused. “I don’t, either.”
Her threat hung in the air between them, and Eryx raised his sword when she stepped closer. Jaw tight, he said, “Magoi. Here? In Atlantis?” He watched Bellanca’s fire smolder under her cloak, seeming both mesmerized and furious. “How is this possible?”
“I’m not from here. I told you. The gods sent me.”
His gaze jumped back to her face. “Take off your helmet.”
“ I give the orders.” Bellanca channeled her magic away from her head and down her arms and into her fingers. The helmet stayed hot but not burning, and her hands crackled fiercely. “Give me Cleito.”
“How do I know you truly speak for Zeus?” Eryx yanked on Cleito’s leash and pulled her roughly against him. He gripped her arm, turning her ivory skin red under his unforgiving fingers.
Bellanca’s anger surged at the show of brutality, but for the first time, she hesitated. Eryx wasn’t scaring as easily as she hoped, and she half wondered if Zeus might smite her on the spot for throwing his name around. It was beyond bold to speak for the King of Olympus, but Persephone had mandated her in Zeus’s name to lead an army in Atlantis. She couldn’t do that without taking the island first, so here she was, making her first real move and placing herself on the game board.
“Hand over the oracle,” she ordered sharply, “or suffer the wrath of Olympus.” My wrath. She flamed brighter.
Eryx’s eyes narrowed. “Zeus would just take her. There one second, gone the next. Gods don’t need to send Magoi messengers. You’re an imposter, and all you’ve done is prove her importance.” Eryx hauled Cleito against his chest and used her to shield him. “Guards! Kill her!” He dragged Cleito backward as his soldiers rushed at Bellanca.