58. Isla
58
ISLA
W hile Konstantin and his family buried their dead—some in the earth, some in the ocean—we, Crows, ripped the bone trench off its tracks and flew it far out to sea.
Ksenia was imprisoned deep inside a mountain, her cell warded with a blood-key that only my mate possesses. Konstantin wanted Taytah and Mádhi to give me access, but I refused, worried I may someday be tempted to pay Ksenia a visit and grant her asylum in the underworld.
For a fortnight after the funerals and incarceration, as the kingdom and its king mourned, time slowed. But then schools, restaurants, and shops reopened. Troops of thespians returned to their stages, while other sorts of troops were trained and dispatched to every corner of the empire to preserve the fragile peace with equanimity instead of brute force.
Ilya, Imogen, and Borat spearheaded the creation of a centralized intelligence bureau. Their first order was locating the revolutionaries that partook in Bohdan and Ksenia’s attack. Their second order was unearthing and confiscating all air-propelled weapons. The task was monumental.
Vance trained Mestyla and introduced her to the orcas. He introduced many Serpents to the orcas, including Naeva and the others—by others, I mean Antoni who was back in Glace. They’d disembarked from the same ship that had carried my mother and grandmothers to Glace.
Aodhan became Commander of Glace, which predictably induced discontent amongst the population. The position of general has yet to be filled.
And me… I’ve spent the last two moon cycles with Sofiya, Elio, Lachlano, Izolda, and Naeva touring cities and towns, not to spellcast but to introduce ourselves. Progressively, people’s displeasure softened into wary reluctance. The younglings were the swiftest to accept us, ooh ing and ahh ing when we’d visit their classrooms to teach them about ourselves, our customs, and our magic.
What truly won them over were the sky rides. It didn’t win their parents over, though. Most were terrified, but day by day, ride by ride, city by city, village by village, their terror waned into something akin to wonder.
What did help was Sofiya and Elio’s presence—Sofiya because she was a reformed antimorph and extremely vocal, and Elio, because he was sweetness personified and had round ears. We were an odd little troop, made even odder by our newest member, Mr. Jingles, our reindeer.
Yes, we’ve domesticated a reindeer. The creature follows us everywhere . He trots beside us when we stroll through city and village streets, sups wherever we sup—be it at the castle or in restaurants—and flies whenever we fly. Each time he leaps into the air and flits his stubby, furred wings, I’m filled with admiration. He cannot stay airborne for long and refuses to be ridden, though Sofiya hasn’t given up hope on that front.
How she basks in the attention that domesticating a wild creature has won her. While Elio basks in her loudness and confidence. We don’t tease him about his crush. We don’t even mention it. We watch, though. Mostly to make sure he doesn’t get hurt since Sofiya is still engaged to the Nebban half-blood, who’s yet to journey to Glace like she’s yet to journey to Nebba. I expect the betrothal to be called off at any minute.
Did I mention her leg was growing back? The relief I’d felt when she announced needing to shorten her peg leg had been so heady that I’d walked straight into a door. Unfortunately—or rather fortunately—Lachlano had been present at the time of the incident. How he’d hooted… It had been his first true laugh since the failed coup.
Zia Syb, who visited with Mattia and Phoeppa last month, took an instant loathing to Milana’s sister, which only magnified when Mádhi mentioned how alike they were. If only I could’ve bottled the startled-owl look on Zia Syb’s face… Unsurprisingly, from that moment on, Phoeppa has teased her relentlessly about their twin characters. Unsurprisingly, Zia Syb has not appreciated it one bit.
The castle that rang and smelled of carnage two moon cycles ago now rings with laughter and smells—most days—of damp reindeer fur. Mr. Jingles has even become an honorary member of Izolda’s book club, which Sofiya joined before Izolda even finished voicing her invitation.
Lachlano and Elio aren’t official members, even though they read all the books—chiefly for my benefit, since my mate has so little time for storytelling these days.
What little time we do have with only each other, we spend discussing our days, our qualms, and our little successes, and, of course, getting better acquainted with every inch of the other’s body.
As I wait in the Great Hall for Konstantin and our patchwork family to gather, I stare up at the bright and unique ceiling candelabrum that Izolda and Mestyla designed together using a misprinted romance novel the Countess had wanted to toss out.
They blew life back into it, cutting out all the pages and adding bold strokes of paint onto them—landscapes, flowers, Crows, Serpents, snowflakes—before stringing them beside hand-blown glass orbs like rigid garlands. The project had taken them weeks and created such a strong bond that one would think Mestyla had known her aunt for her entire life.
Lachlano, Elio, and Sofiya are the first to join me, Mr. Jingles in tow, of course.
“I just have to ask, Sofe…” Lachlano pulls his dreadlocks free from the collar of his leather jacket. “Can you hear Jingle’s thoughts?”
His comment doesn’t only win him a glower from the Faerie; it earns him a mouthful of earth-magic, which Elio liberally sprinkles with some water-magic. Lachlano gags, then hacks. Each time he manages to cleanse his tongue, the two Faeries fill his mouth anew.
I laugh so hard that I get a side stitch and tears trundle down my cheeks, surely messing up the stripes I matched to my outfit tonight—violet. Konstantin’s favorite color.
Speaking of my mate… As he emerges from the Throne Room stairwell, his brow arches at the scene before him.
“Do not fret, Kostya”—I’m fine with Sofiya’s nickname for him now—“the pile of dirt isn’t reindeer droppings.” Sofiya pulls a treat from her evening bag and holds it out to Mr. Jingles, who munches on it as though he hadn’t just eaten an hour ago. At the rate she’s feeding him, he won’t be able to fly soon.
I just start to contain my mirth when Ilya quips that his aunt has given new meaning to the threat of “ eat dirt .”
I giggle again. I’m still skimming my lashes of tears when Konstantin and I reach the esplanade.
He sweeps my cheeks with his thumbs. Have I ever mentioned how much I love the sound of your laughter?
A boon, considering how often you’re subjected to it.
Blessed with it.
He bends low and fits his mouth over mine.
As flurries swirl around us, melting against my flushed cheeks, I murmur, I can’t wait for tomorrow.
And I can’t wait for the rest of our lives, Little Witch.
I don’t sleep that night, my mind abuzz with excitement.
Today is the day we journey to Shabbe for the first leg of our nuptials—the blood-bind. The ceremony that will give Konstantin access to my blood-magic. Although I realize that spellcasting won’t make him impervious to iron and that he can already do tremendous things with his air-magic, I’m glad to provide his bow with one extra string.
Unlike Ilya, I don’t believe that a bow with too many strings is only useful to make music. I suspect he keeps the debate alive only because it ruffles my feathers and spurs me to challenge him in the training room. Ilya loves play-fighting and ruffling feathers.
Yuri, who was brought to the castle to convalesce, explained that it’s Ilya’s way of showing his affection. Although the governor had finally awakened, a part of me thinks he would’ve preferred not to.
He’s not coming today, too broken in heart and spirit to celebrate nuptials. Neither are Ilya and Aodhan, even though the reason they’re staying behind is to ensure the safety of Glace while Konstantin is away.
As I lay in one of our two beds—Konstantin and I have kept separate rooms, but we never sleep apart—I watch snow collect on the skylight that I forgot to shield behind a curtain when I sunk into bed and Konstantin sunk into me.
Like the flakes above, Bisnonno’s words from many years ago gather behind my temples: “ My Little Island, it’s a grave misconception to believe that the end of a war is concurrent with the beginning of peace. A chasm exists between the conclusion of one and the advent of the other. One filled by a succession of battles—some of body, some of mind. It is those victories that bridge the chasm, one stone at a time. ”
I’d liked the imagery but hadn’t truly grasped its meaning until now.
Too restless to remain horizontal, I inch away from the male spooning my backside. I think I’ve succeeded not to wake him when his fingers spread on my stomach and drag me back into the warm crook of his body.
You should try to sleep some more, I murmur into the bond.
He so rarely has a full night’s rest these days.
His fingers travel south, cupping my sex, and then begin to stroke. Apparently, he has other ideas than restorative slumber. I go soft against him while he grows hard against me.
When he dips a finger inside of me, I move against his thickening erection. My thighs slicken with my anticipation while my ass dampens with his. Without turning around, I reach for him, then guide him into my slit. His chest rumbles as he sheathes himself in deep.
Skies, I love that sound. Love it almost as hard as the feel of our bodies fusing. Of our hearts syncing. Of our souls melding.
The arm that he propped under my neck in sleep, curls, and he caresses my breasts, all the while stroking my tingling bud and pumping his hips.
What else do you love? He kisses my neck.
You. Everything about —I swallow as heat gathers low in my belly— you.
I cry out as my orgasm rockets through me with the force of a thousand hailstones.
I burn, blaze, glitter. The embers of my climax bob through my bloodstream like votive candles as he continues to caress…to rock.
Soon, their wicks crackle and flare anew, their fire so bright it blanks my vision and sends me spiraling right back into that place made of blazing ice, wild wind, and fated love.