Chapter 59
MERYN
My ability to lie and pretend is stretched to its absolute maximum as I take in Killian’s threat.
I’m sure he can see a tidal wave of emotions crashing across my face. All I can do is hope that they line up with what he was expecting. He always did love to play with my emotions.
I finally school my features into an imitation of fear as I respond, maintaining my facade, hoping he’s convinced.
“Of course. As you wish.”
Anassa’s disgust is a low growl in the back of my mind as we drag Stark and Cratos over to Tormun’s tent. Dozens of eyes are on us as we pass by humans and wolves.
One of the pairs along the way is distinctly Daemos, her wolf pitch black. I study her as we pass, noting her averted gaze at the sight of her Alpha being so humiliated.
Fucking traitor.
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.
The minutes are like hours as I drag Stark and Cratos behind. When we finally arrive at Tormun’s tent, their bodies slam painfully into the dirt in front of the entrance flaps in a show of uncaring cruelty.
“I’m so sorry,” I say through the bond.
Stark chuckles in his head, low and throaty. “This is nothing. Won’t even leave a bruise. Want to tell Anassa to give me a bite or two while you’re at it, actually leave a mark?”
“Shut up,” I respond affectionately. “And don’t underestimate these assholes. Be safe.”
“Same to you, my queen,” he thinks back at me.
I straighten, make a show of twisting my mouth in disgust as I gaze down at their trussed-up bodies. Then Anassa and I turn back to where Killian waits.
Behind me, I hear Tormun emerge from his tent and grunt out a laugh that sends goose bumps rippling over my skin. There’s something off about it that fills me with a deep unease.
“You’ve always thought too highly of yourself, Stark Therion,” he taunts, and one of the Bonded looking on has the nerve to laugh along. I close my eyes briefly against the sound of Tormun spitting, presumably in Stark’s face, then the dull thump of a body being kicked.
Anassa slows beneath me, every inch of her itching to turn and tear Tormun apart.
“Well, that ends today,” Tormun concludes. The sounds of bodies being dragged are unmistakable. Anassa and I force ourselves to stare straight ahead, moving forward resolutely, away from Stark and Tormun.
This was the plan.
Stick to the plan.
“Now,” I think urgently to Noemi and Stark. “Tormun has Stark, and they’re headed into his tent. Once he’s inside, wait until you think the odds are as good as they’re going to get, then turn the tables on him.”
“On it. You can drop the Kryptos power now. Don’t worry, Meryn,” Noemi assures me. “We’ll take care of him.”
I marvel at Noemi’s strength, going up against her own pack’s Alpha.
But there’s no time to think about it before Anassa and I find ourselves back in front of Killian.
I strain, holding on to a thread of my connection to both Stark and Noemi while turning my attention back outward, ready to receive any urgent messages from them.
Killian looks every inch the monarch: his lean and muscular frame clothed elegantly but simply in rich fabrics, his hands and face clean, freshly shaved. His expression is impassive, and to anyone who didn’t know him better, he’d seem the picture of control.
But I know him too well.
I know his tells, even after all the nights I’ve spent trying to forget everything about him.
How his jaw is tight with annoyance—probably directed at me, at my advantage sitting high on Anassa. How the fingers on his right hand twitch, eager and impatient.
And that other thing, the strange spasms around his eyes. A slight tightening and then loosening of the cords of his neck.
For all his bravado, having Alistair riding along in his head is wearing on him. I wonder just how often he loses control of the ancient Siphon, how often Alistair is in charge.
Killian gestures behind him, to the flaps of his own ostentatious tent. “Join me, darling. We can have lunch while we discuss our next steps.”
I shake my head. I’m not eager to go inside, as tent walls would hinder my and Anassa’s motion. Out in the open, we have more options. “I already ate.”
Killian’s face twists. For a moment, I think I can see Alistair winning the battle for control, but then his features settle. “Well? The Tears?” he says finally, and the shadows around us twitch erratically—his doing, not mine.
Stark has removed his shadowy “restraints” already. He and Noemi must be moving against Tormun—good. I let my control over my emotions, my magic, slacken, that tight focus in my head letting go.
Time to do things my way.
My anger and anticipation surge, spurring my own shadows into movement. They build and mingle with Killian’s.
The feel of his shadows—my stolen shadows—interwoven with mine makes me queasy.
The magic is both familiar and yet so wrong.
I focus on his face to ignore the pulsing dance of power all around us.
It expands overhead like a massive net, until we’re in a strange twilight world, sunlight filtering through between strands of pure blackness.
Fucking vile.
Our magics swarm and tangle together, forming an intangible tent around us, blocking out the onlookers.
“The Tears should be only for us,” I say as I send even more shadow into the walls around us, hoping to distract Killian, to keep him literally in the dark as Stark and Noemi execute the first part of our plan.
“They’re too powerful. I don’t want to discuss them where anyone else can see or hear us. ”
“Of course, kitten,” he says smoothly. “Don’t worry, once you give them to me, they’ll be safe.”
Anassa’s muscles tense more than I thought possible beneath me. Her anger is bound up in our bond like a tether connecting her heart and mine. I send a pulse of reassurance down it.
Then I slowly pull the two necklaces out from under my clothes, displaying them both in my palm while keeping the chains looped around my neck.
“There are the two of these, made into necklaces,” I start.
I want to draw this out as much as possible.
The objective is for Tormun’s threat to be neutralized and the Phylax pack back under my command before I attack Killian—to control for as many variables as possible.
“These are both heirlooms of the royal lines—mine and the Astreonans’, too. ”
“The priestess said as much,” Killian says impatiently. “I can see you’re wearing the wolf crown, of course. And the rest?”
I pull the leather pack from my hip and slowly withdraw Lucien’s crown. “The crown of the Siphon king. It must look familiar to Alistair?”
In a split second, Killian’s face does that uncanny transformation fully, as Alistair takes over. His eyes roll back, face going totally slack. Then there’s someone else there, behind his features.
He strides toward us, arm outstretched. “Give it to me,” he hisses, even his voice a slightly different tenor than Killian’s own. Anassa and I move back warily.
“Bring back Killian,” I order, voice shaking with disgust and just a tinge of fear.
This is the Siphon who orchestrated the downfall of my family and invented the shackle at my wrist that gives Killian control of my powers. This is the ancient being that even Killian fears to go up against without the full power of the Goddess Tears in his arsenal.
I don’t want him involved in this conversation. I know how to handle Killian; I don’t know how to handle him.
Killian’s face is pulled into a sneer by the parasitic Siphon inside him. “We’ll have lots of time to talk later, little Sturmfrost girl. I look forward to it.”
Another uneasy transition and then Killian is back, breathing heavily for a moment before he pulls himself together as if nothing has happened. “Ready to show me your latest prize, too?”
I reach into my pack again to withdraw the Tear from the statue, but before I get ahold of it, a blast comes through the connection to Stark in my head.
Pain. Shock. More pain.
I have to grit my teeth to keep from doubling over.
“What’s happening?” I call desperately to them both, tensing at the attention it’s taking to maintain this mental connection while maintaining the shadow barrier around me and Killian.
My magic rises in response to my need, the surge of power flowing through me like a shocking plunge into icy water. I embrace the sharp prickle of the crown on my head and the Tears at my neck and on Lucien’s crown in my hand, as they serve as conduit to more and more.
“Tormun somehow knew what we were planning,” Stark sends back with mounting anger and bloodlust, making my heart beat faster. “He had a squadron of Phylax ready to trap me with their shielding power.”
Fuck. I reach for him. Our minds pull even closer together, and I feel it as he summons a massive amount of impelling power, slamming it against the walls the Phylax traitors have built around him.
“They’re weakening already—they underestimate the power of a Sovereign Alpha. But I think I’m going to be busy here for a while,” he tells me grimly as he sends another bone-rattling blast of power out against the magical cage around him.
Distantly I can hear the noises around him—two dozen or more Phylax riders, grunting as they maintain their barrier against his strength.
Tormun’s taunts, promises of violence to come.
The harsh sound of Stark’s breathing as he gathers his power for another blow against his magical prison.
“Noemi?” I call to her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she answers to my relief. “I got away before they ambushed Valstark. I’m trying to find a way to help him.”
I share the update with Stark and then open my eyes, realizing they fluttered closed.
The magic encasing us makes the world look eerily like the shadow realm of my dreams, and for a half second I’m disoriented. I gulp. I don’t know how long my attention has been off Killian.
My heart is beating wildly. This is all going fucking sideways.
I blink again, and Killian comes into focus.