Chapter 30 Leash #3
Carrion’s eyes burned into my cheek, but still, I refused to look at him. “And how do you know that exactly?”
“Because he’s my sire. I can sense him, the way he can sense me. I always know where he is. Come on, keep up.”
“Wow. That must get confusing when the three of you are all in the same place. Half of you is on alert, sensing Tal, and the other half is being drawn toward Fisher.”
“My connection with Fisher doesn’t work like that.”
“What?” Carrion came to a theatrical dead stop. “You can sense Tal, but you can’t sense Fisher?”
I kept walking.
“Hey! Hey, wait!” He ran to catch up. “Sorry if I’m a little confused, but aren’t you two supposed to share a love that puts all other love to shame?”
I took a left and jogged down a set of stairs. “I do have a connection with Fisher, yes. And yes, I can sense where he is. It . . . just isn’t the same. The connection I share with him feels like a deep well. Calm and peaceful.”
“And what does the connection with Tal feel like?”
I gritted my teeth, reaching the bottom of the stairs. I turned right. “A leash.”
I’d never been to Tal’s rooms before. There had never been any need for me to go there.
As Carrion and I drew up outside the arched doorway with the golden scrolled door handles, I was struck with a wave of déjà vu.
I knew the shape of the doorknob in my hand.
I knew that the door would squeak a little as I pushed it open.
I knew what the air would smell like when I entered the chambers beyond.
Borrowed memories.
Echoes in the blood.
I knew these things because they were so familiar to Tal, and I was a product of his line.
I raised my hand to knock on the door and hesitated.
A strange sensation tickled at the back of my mind.
There were people with Tal on the other side of this door.
Lots of people. There was a tension in the rooms beyond that made the air bristle with electricity.
An argument, maybe? But who would he be arguing with?
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I wheeled around, fist still poised to knock.
Zovena strolled along the hallway toward us, her bright blond hair scraped back into a severe braid that looked so tight it must have been giving her a headache.
The rope of hair fell over her shoulder and dangled almost to her waist. Her black, high-collared dress clung to her curves, accentuating her hips and cleavage, which was almost spilling over the lace cups.
I hadn’t seen her since the coronation; I could have lived with never seeing her again and been perfectly happy, but no.
Ammontraíeth was vast—a person could get lost in the windowless, dark corridors of this place—but it was still just one building.
It had only been a matter of time before I crossed paths with her again.
She smiled smugly as she knelt and sat back on her heels, making herself comfortable.
I lowered my hand, looking down at the female, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn’t know precisely what had gone on between her and Tal, but I knew enough.
She was the reason he had come here and given himself over to Malcolm.
He had loved her, and she had abandoned him somehow.
Now it seemed as though she wanted nothing more than to see the Keeper of Secrets dead and buried in the ground.
“Your Majesty.” The greeting was sweet as rotten fruit. When she spoke, a gust of something sensual and exotic rose from her and hit the back of my nose. The scent was intoxicating. It made my head spin a little.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” I said.
“Me?” Zovena laughed prettily, tossing her braid back over her shoulder.
“What have I done to offend the queen of the Blood Court? Tell me, and I’ll be sure to make reparations immediately.
” I’d met women like her back in Zilvaren.
Women who would have traded their own family members to the guardians in exchange for the smallest of luxuries.
The kind of woman who would sell her soul to the devil if it guaranteed her power, temporary or otherwise.
Zovena was far more dangerous than those women had been, though.
She was Fae turned vampire. If she played her cards right, she’d live to see this empire crumble to dust—and a part of me knew she would have something to do with its fall.
“You’re a Lord of Midnight,” I said.
Malice shone from her eyes. “Oh! My, my. I really thought you’d forgotten that.” The sound of her laughter made my skin crawl. “I am a Lord of Midnight, yes. My beloved maker bestowed the title upon me seven hundred and eighty-three years ago. May I rise?”
“Your beloved maker.” I nodded, huffing down my nose. “Malcolm?”
The metallic tang of anger marred the air, and yet Zovena’s face showed nothing of it. “You would have crawled to speak his name in another life, King Killer,” she said.
Oh ho ho, boy. She wanted to play. “I suppose I have you to thank for that honorific, Zovena. Is the name supposed to upset me? Because, personally, I’m rather proud of that accomplishment.
Tell me,” I said, before she could reply.
“In Ammontraíeth, is it considered incest if you sleep with your maker? ’Cause it sounds to me like someone was fucking Daddy. ”
“Bitch!” Zovena’s serene facade disintegrated, revealing the depths of her hatred at last. Her features warped, her mouth suddenly too large, pulling up at the corners.
She lunged, but her body immediately recoiled, held in place by the fact that she was prohibited from hurting me and I hadn’t given her leave to stand.
Carrion grabbed hold of the doorframe, clutching hold of it as he pretended to stagger sideways. “Gods and martyrs! What’s wrong with your face?”
Zovena hissed like a hellcat. “Be mindful of that tongue, sheascah. I’m no fool. I know who you are. There are those who would pay handsomely for delivery of your head on a pike.”
I stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the smuggler. “You won’t touch him. You won’t look sideways at him again. You won’t tell anyone anything about Carrion, do you understand me? You’ll rip your own tongue out trying.”
The Lord flinched under the weight of the command. She saw me as a little girl, wandering blind and scared in a dark forest. She had forgotten who she was talking to—impressive, given she was the one on her knees.
“Say it. Tell me that you understand.” I could have spoken with anger or a hatred that would easily have matched hers, but I served the order up in a bland, disinterested tone instead.
“I . . . understand.” Zovena tried to trap the words behind her teeth, but even she had to obey a direct command from the queen. “Anterrian goaneth tiel ran lir—”
“Stop.” The air vibrated, and Zovena rocked back as if I’d struck her across the face. I tilted my head to one side, frowning down at her. “You are the Keeper of Missives, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly does the Keeper of Missives do? Tell me.”
“It’s an important role,” Zovena blurted out. “The Keeper of Missives is in charge of all communication in and out of Ammontraíeth. Battle orders, news, secrets. All must go through me.”
“Sounds like a glorified message runner. We have those back in Zilvaren, y’know. But the job is considered pretty lowly there.”
The female had almost regained her composure; her facial features had returned to normal, but her eyes flashed like knives at this. “May . . . I . . . rise?” she gritted out.
“No.”
“You have no idea how difficult it is to deliver messages to the spies we have sequestered abroad—”
“How hard is it to deliver a letter to a high blood, right here in this court?”
She blinked, taken aback. “A letter? Here?”
“Mm-hmm. A piece of paper, in an envelope. Sealed, I assume.” I looked at Carrion. “Letters are usually sealed, aren’t they?”
“Usually,” he agreed.
I faced the female again. “A letter like that would be relatively easy to deliver here, in the palace, no?”
“Obviously. Of course.” She considered this line of questioning not worthy of her time, it seemed.
“So, explain something to me, then. My mate and my friends have written a number of letters to someone here at the Blood Court over the years. Did those letters not reach Ammontraíeth?”
Zovena bared her fangs, brow creasing with unnaturally deep furrows. “That male is not a member of this court. He is shunned. The shunned do not receive missives. And the enemies of my home do not get to address their allies here!”
“So they did arrive.”
Zovena said nothing.
“I could make you tell me.”
“Yes, they arrived. But—”
“Do you still have them in your lair, wherever that might be?” It wasn’t wise to provoke her.
I wasn’t stupid enough to believe that this dynamic would exist between us for long.
The high bloods of Sanasroth would find a way to oust me sooner or later, and then I wouldn’t be able to bend Zovena to my will with words alone.
It would take violence, but I was okay with that.
If it was violence these monsters understood, then I would give it to them.
I could be violent if I had to be. I could be cruel.
I let Zovena see the promise of that when she met my steady gaze. “Yes,” she said tartly. “I do still have them.”
“Then you’ll give them to their intended recipient. Today.”
The female set her jaw. “He can come down to my chambers and fetch them like the dog that he—”
“You will deliver them to the library. Personally.” I spoke slowly, enunciating every single word. “Or I will come and find you. And when I’m done with you, there will be nothing left of you but your fucking teeth. Are we clear?”
She looked like she wanted to spit in my face; it was killing her not to. “As a winter’s morn,” she said.
My desires back in the Third had never been grand or grasping.
Clean water. A decent meal. Clothes that wouldn’t fall apart on me.
I hadn’t dreamed of much. I certainly hadn’t dreamed of power.
I wasn’t enjoying any of this, but it had to be done.
It was as I’d told Carrion just now: Zovena needed to know that, no matter how badly she wished otherwise, I was her better and I was not to be fucked with.
I was about to dismiss her from my presence like a scolded child when the door to Tal’s chambers swung open, and my maker appeared in the open doorway.
He was naked and spattered with blood . . . and his cock jutted outrageously hard from between his thighs. “If you’re not coming in to join the fun, then please move this along. You’re making me look like a bad host.”