Chapter 30 #3
I watched in astonishment as Ferne swept her hand slowly across the enormous warhammer, and the weapon shrank, reshaping itself to fit her hand. Then, on a second pass, it reverted to its original size.
“Our family has been custodians of the Hjarte for centuries. When Sirro discovers the Warhammer is gone, he’ll slaughter us all. You’ve condemned us to death,” he whispered to my mother.
“Maybe he’ll never ask to see it,” she replied, wringing her hands, desperate and hopeful.
My father dragged a hand down his face, shoulders slumping. “He will. He always seems to know what someone tries to hide.”
I pressed a shaky hand to my mouth. Oh gods, what had my mother done? Even if I escaped my fate at the Witches Ball, she had ensured my father would be owned by the Crowthers forever.
I didn’t notice Ferne pulling a phone from her pocket until she slid her thumb across the screen and lifted it to her ear.
“Hi Aunt Addie… No, I’m in charge of this…
It’s done. We have Brangwene’s Hjarte.” She smiled shyly, beamed really, at whatever Addie replied.
“Thank you… Are you ready?” She listened, then nodded. “Okay. Yes. Right now.”
She turned the phone toward us, and I frowned at the image.
Wherever Addie stood, it was dark, but the phone’s light illuminated her face and the vehicle behind her.
I’d only seen her briefly a few days ago, but I recognized the bobbed hair feathered like a raven’s wing.
She wore black and stood beside the open hatchback of an SUV.
“Byron, Marissa,” she greeted, dipping into a bow.
She angled the phone away. We couldn’t see her, but we heard her. The light glanced off something blackened and long. A handle. An enormous hammered head.
I gasped.
It looked exactly like Brangwene’s Hjarte.
“It’s a replica,” Addie said. “The Blacksmith made it. If Sirro or any of the Horned Gods ask to see it, it should fool them into thinking it’s the real Warhammer.”
My father and I shared an astonished look.
“Thank you, Aunty,” Ferne said, ending the call.
She slid the phone into her pocket and addressed my father.
“My aunt is outside your estate with the replica. She’ll hand it over whenever you’re ready.
” She lifted a shoulder, the corner of her mouth tipping up.
“We didn’t anticipate that you’d bring the real Hjarte here. ”
“Why?” he asked.
Not why she didn’t think we’d bring it to the Emporium, but why were they giving us a lifeline? Why hand us a replica? I frowned. Perhaps it was simply another way to keep a leash on my father.
Ferne shut the lid of the box. It clicked into place.
“Not that you’ll believe me, Byron, but your wife remembers us differently. We weren’t always like this. Despite everything that’s happened between our families, in this matter of Brangwene’s Hjarte, we’re not as cold-blooded as you think.”
Her fingertips skimmed the table’s edge as she moved closer to me. I was still reeling from the revelation of the replica when she said quietly, “I’ll leave you alone to be with your parents.”
I blinked, stunned, my gaze lifting to hers. Gratitude burst like summer sunrays within my heart. Right at that very moment, I wanted to hug the younger girl for both saving my family from the Horned Gods’ wrath and allowing me time with my parents.
“Thank you,” I whispered, placing my hand over hers and giving a gentle squeeze.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her warm fingers twitching beneath mine. Dark hair fell in waves as she angled her head toward where our hands touched. For a heartbeat, a rush of warring emotions flickered across her startled features.
I understood what she hadn’t said aloud—that in this matter, her family wasn’t cold-blooded in Brangwene’s Hjarte.
But their intent toward me, toward my impending auction at the Witches Ball, very much was.
Ferne might have been all bark and steel spine when demanding the Warhammer from my parents, but I’d long suspected she was uneasy with her family’s schemes regarding my fate.
Her voice came out in a hesitant rasp. “I’ll give you two hours.”
I withdrew my hand, and she nervously tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear with the same fingers I’d held.
One bodyguard approached, murmured something low, then offered his arm.
She curled her fingers around his forearm, and he guided her carefully toward the interconnecting door where Zielenski waited.
A creak of metal and a scrape of wood pricked my ears. And I stepped aside as four bodyguards lifted the battered iron box from the table and settled it onto the trolley. One took the lead and wheeled it after their young mistress.
I glanced eagerly toward my parents at the far end of the board table. None of us dared move until Valarie’s stone-faced cadre withdrew to stand guard outside the door.
The last time I’d properly seen my mother was in my father’s office weeks ago.
Worry knotted my already frayed nerves. She looked older, exhausted, with more silver threading through her tawny hair and deeper lines fanning from her bloodshot eyes.
Her skin was sallow, stretched tightly over sharper cheekbones.
One bony hand gripped the back of a rolling chair for support, while the other absently rotated that vile capsule of pills.
Deep shame rolled through me like a breaker tumbling across the shallows.
I thought of that night, not so long ago.
Of the shouting, the ugly confessions, the even uglier accusations I’d hurled at them both.
I’d learned the truth of the Alverac. How, with a naive stroke of quill dipped in blood, I’d enslaved my will to Graysen Crowther.
And I’d finally understood why my mother had collapsed into this pale, insipid version of herself.
She’d been crushed beneath the immense guilt of what she’d done to her best friend.
The Crowthers’ disappearance into the next room along with Brangwene’s Hjarte pulled me back to the present.
There was no point searching for an escape from the Emporium, not with Furyos Bonefall ready to choke any attempt, and Valarie’s cadre stationed right outside.
I jittered from foot to foot, full of excited, trembling energy.
The door snicked shut behind the Crowthers.
And I ran.
As did my father.