Chapter 4
E ven in that violent act, the Lupa Nox is so striking I find myself half-mesmerized. She moves with a fearsome elegance, reminding me of the wolves I’ve only ever seen depicted in books by an artist’s dark brushstroke.
But my senses prevail and I stumble back, catching myself on the edge of the table near her muscular thigh. She lets out an unearthly snarl, the angle of the candlelight turning her face into a mask of shadow and hatred.
“You’re all right,” I say, trying for a soothing tone, but my voice comes out high-pitched and strangled. I remember the guards at the gate, but when I turn to call out for them, I see that they’re pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear. An uncharitable thought crosses my mind until I remember they’ve faced her on the fields of battle in a way I will never understand. Of course they’re frightened.
“Just kill me,” the Lupa Nox snarls in a low, hoarse voice that might’ve been melodic were it not soaked in rage. “Whatever you want, you won’t have it. Kill me, or I will devour your precious city from the inside out.”
My hand trembles on the edge of the table, but I flex my fingers harder into the wood, knowing it’s the only thing keeping me upright. The guards start yelling for someone Sainted, the taller of the two taking measured steps toward us.
“We don’t want to kill you,” I say. Getting the words out feels like climbing a mountain. It seems as though her restraints are holding just fine, even if the sedation Blessing wasn’t strong enough. “We healed you. And we’re going to continue healing you.”
To my horror, the Lupa Nox throws her head back and laughs. It’s a wild sound, full of bloodlust and iron-willed promise. “All the better,” she replies, relaxing against the table, “to destroy you, then.”
I only say these next words because she is restrained, because we are not on equal footing, because the wolf cannot open its jaws. “How dare you!” I cry out. “We used the sacred Mysteries to heal you. My people do nothing to warrant your attacks, and even though you murder our loved ones, still we have brought you back from the brink of death.”
Then the prison gate opens and someone rushes into the chamber; I feel them pulling on the Mysteries. But before they can strengthen the sedation Blessing, the Lupa Nox lunges forward again, an impossibly elegant contraction of well-developed muscle. “Little dove,” she says, her broad shoulders straining, “I am Death.”
Something I do not quite recognize coils low and tight in my belly, hot and damp as a greenhouse. Then there are firm hands on my arms, leather armor pressing into my back, and my legs leave the ground entirely. Before I understand what’s happening, someone pulls me bodily from the chamber. I’m swept out into the corridor, where a small commotion is developing: the High Ecclesian rushes into the Vincula from the front gate with two Knights of the Host in tow, the charge of Mysteries palpable in the air.
Whoever yanked me from the chamber is still holding me tightly to their chest, saying my name. I very much wish they’d release me. I can hardly breathe as it is. But as the fog of fear dissipates, I realize the voice is familiar, the smell of teak and clean soap sweeping over me.
“Renault,” I breathe. “I’m all right.”
He finally loosens his grip, keeping a hand on my elbow, since my cane was left behind in the Lupa Nox’s chamber. “Ophelia,” he says, coming to stand in front of me, the candlelight gilding his auburn hair. “Thank the Lord. I heard what the High Ecclesia asked of you and came straight away.”
“It would’ve been fine,” I say, wishing fervently for my cane, “if the sedation Blessing had held.”
Renault examines me, his features shadowed in the gloom of the Vincula. He has a face that resembles the countenances depicted in the marble statues adorning the Cloisters: tall and strong with a straight, noble nose, square jaw, high cheekbones. He’s everything a man of the Host aspires to be—a knight and scholar, third son of one of the most respected Apostle families.
There is no higher station for mortals in Lumendei than to be named an Apostle. And yet here I am, an orphan discovered in the aftermath of a skirmish with the Sepulchyre, brought to Lumendei and given a life, and now just mere months away from marrying him.
My own story is irrefutable proof of the generosity of our God, of the ways this sacred city allows anyone to improve their lot. The thought of the Lupa Nox’s threats against this place I love so dearly slinks through my body, but I roughly shove it aside.
“This is too dangerous for you. The Lupa Nox herself?” he whispers, his gaze darting toward the High Ecclesian, as if he doesn’t know precisely how unnaturally keen Their hearing is. So a game, then—a performance for the Holy One who backed me into this corner. Fine.
“Renault,” I murmur, my hip beginning to scream in pain, “I don’t think I have a choice.”
He studies me, his mouth moving into a firm line. A Holy Guard soldier walks toward us, holding out my cane. I reach for it, but the soldier hands it to Renault instead. Thankfully, my betrothed quickly presses it into my hand. I lean against it, taking the weight off my useless right leg, sighing in relief.
“Surely the High Ecclesia consulted you before coming to me?” I ask when the pain quiets enough for me to form words.
“Yes,” he admits, his voice strained. “But I wasn’t able to review the note left with my squire until you were already down here. You’re right, Ophelia. This is . . . not a request.”
I swallow hard, wanting nothing more than to flee the Vincula, to sit beneath a willow tree in the garden and breathe fresh air. To be away from the soot of the candlelight and the gleam of weapons.
“You jeopardized your House by standing up for me in the trial,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, gaze darting toward the Holy Guard, who are beginning to close ranks along the walls. “If the High Ecclesia influences the Twelve to move against our union, the Amadeus reputation will be permanently damaged. And I’ll . . . I’ll face exile. The stake, maybe. Or marriage to Sergio, if he wishes.”
My skin crawls at the thought as Renault takes a deep breath, his broad chest rising, the mother-of-pearl crest embedded in his leather armor shimmering in the dim room.
“I know. I only seek to keep you safe,” he says, reaching for my hand, as if we are deeply in love. His lightly callused fingers run over my palm, and I imagine such a thing should make me feel something. “And I worry this is all too much. Particularly after the trial. I want you working in the gardens, assisting me in the Libris Sanctum, planning our ceremony—not trapped down here in the Vincula, caring for the most dangerous warrior of our enemy.”
Irritation climbs up my spine. It isn’t fair, of course—even if his words weren’t little more than a performance for the High Ecclesian, Renault truly only wants what is best for me, and I will spend my life trying to pay back my debts to him. “I know,” I reply, “but I have to do this, and I promise you I can handle it.”
Maybe it’s the light, or perhaps just the stress of it all, but for a long, painful moment, Renault looks at me as if I can hardly accomplish a task easy enough for a child, let alone an undertaking of this magnitude, and there is something far too sincere about it.
I set my jaw. “If the High Ecclesia Themselves think I’m up to the task?—”
“Yes, yes,” Renault agrees, his expression growing tender again, “of course. I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you . Come, let us leave this place. The High Ecclesian said you are no longer needed for today.”
I nod and let Renault lead me out of the oppressive underground prison. As we wait in the vestibule for the attollo to return from the Spine, he encourages me to lean against him for the sake of my leg. I do, trying to tell myself I enjoy the warmth of his bulk, the way his fingers slide around my waist.
The attollo arrives, and to my surprise, another High Ecclesian steps off, accompanied by more Knights of the Host. My heart constricts, something like nausea blooming low in my belly.
“Fair One.” I greet Them with an inclination of my head. I rarely encounter the near-immortal, Mysterium-imbued race that predates mortals at all—let alone two in one day. Only a handful of Fatum were strong and godly and powerful enough to survive the Holy War, and the First Son honored them all with an invitation into the High Ecclesia not long after. Except for the Lupa Nox, of course. She is the last of the Fallen, the only living Fatum excluded from the High Ecclesia.
I wonder how terrible that must feel for my God. All He seeks is to restore the twelve siblings He once had before the Creatrixes attacked. And now He’s found another Fatum, another being strong enough to join His most sacred flock. And she spits in His face.
“Fair One,” Renault echoes, bowing his head and moving aside for the tall, spindly figure, Their features obscured by the gold mask. The knights trail after the Ecclesian, nodding at Renault.
Only once the vestibule clears do we step onto the attollo.
“What do you think a second Ecclesian is doing down here?” I ask, a knot of tension releasing as the golden platform begins to rise, taking us up to the Spine.
“Judging by the tools the knights were carrying,” Renault says with a downturn of his mouth, “They’re here to perform an extraction.”
I frown, looking up at him. “What does that mean?”
Renault draws in a deep breath, considering. “I am trying to think of a way to put this that is appropriate for a lady’s sensibilities,” he replies, his jaw working.
I smooth my skirts with my hands, trying not to laugh at his completely out-of-character response. It is particularly amusing given that not only have I just survived a bell in the company of the Lupa Nox, but I also regularly deal with more blood and death than Renault could possibly understand. Yes, he is a Knight of the Host—but his appointment is a ceremonial honor. His armor has never met a Sepulchyre blade. He’s never even seen the infirmary after a battle, never returned home soaked in blood and entrails and screams.
“The knights and the Ecclesia,” Renault finally says as the attollo reaches the Spine, “will work to get information out of the Lupa Nox.”
“Oh,” I say, my brow furrowing. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?”
“No,” Renault agrees with a shaky smile, helping me step from the platform into the Spine’s now-bustling corridor. “Some of those knights can be a bit rough for my taste, but it is imperative we glean all we can from Nyatrix.”
The name breaks onto my shores as heavily as the sea waves buffet the cliffs below my beloved gardens. I am suspended, as though time has slowed, unspooled like silk thread, the world shifting beneath my feet. No longer does this feel like idle conversation for the sake of our farce.
Everything suddenly feels terrifyingly and beautifully visceral, as if I have finally just stepped into the real world. Unbidden, my mind conjures up the knight’s long, powerful body—the corded muscles of her shoulders, the strength in her long-fingered hands, the elegant swoop of her collarbone.
“Nyatrix?” I echo, the syllables tasting metallic as blood on my tongue.
“Yes,” Renault replies, leading me through the morning bustle. “The Lupa Nox’s name. Nyatrix.”
My breath pulls in sharply of its own accord, something in my chest constricting. I say nothing as we walk through the Spine—a path I have walked daily for more than five-and-twenty anni. But despite the familiar mist-hemmed sun dancing on the marble and the gleam of the archways I could navigate blindfolded, I have the strangest feeling that nothing will ever be the same again.