Chapter 35
Brand pulled the quilt up around Luna’s chin, tucking it around her shoulders.
“I have to check on Fern,” she mumbled, the words slurred.
His heart flipped, eyes pricking. Half-asleep and dead on her feet, and she was still fighting. Only for others, though, never herself. It bothered him, even as a wave of pride swelled.
“Nyri and Bal are with her.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, tempted to linger. “Close your eyes. Rest. Your wellness is just as important, and you’ll need it to help her, yes?”
Her reply was a vague series of garbled sounds, and she was fast asleep before he straightened.
He wanted to stay—to stare down at her slack face squashed against the pillow, fingertips tangled in glinting strands of hair that refused to be tamed, and spend the night wondering what he’d done to deserve such a creature—but Magnus was waiting.
For what, Brand didn’t know. He’d been prowling out in the corridor for the last quarter hour, refusing to take the hint and go away. Instead, the impatient ripple of his brother’s predatory power continued to seep under the door, demanding attention.
Whatever he wanted had better be bloody fucking important—and nought to do with that travesty of a meeting.
His hand trailed over her leg as he walked away. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He slipped out of Luna’s room, the door latching softly behind him, and turned to his brother.
“What the fuck was that?”
Brand called on his remaining patience, rubbing a palm along one horn. “An unfortunate example of the hazy power dynamics between Imperials and the realms they serve?”
“Don’t get fucking cute with me, you wee shite,” Mag growled, pushing past him and stalking down the corridor. “That was a mess down there, and you know it. Come on.”
He did. If not for the note he’d spotted on Luna’s nightstand, he’d be raging his way back to the great hall and plowing his fist straight into Lyriat’s face. “All is not as it seems. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Ach, you don’t say. Was it Lyriat’s new personality, or the imposter part that tipped you off?”
“Very funny,” Brand deadpanned, raising a brow. “Where are we going?”
Mag ran a hand through his flaxen hair with a sigh. “In case you were looking to add to the nonsense, the first of the messengers has returned. Well, aside from the one sent to fetch Caius, obviously.”
Brand’s heart kicked up. He’d put the messengers out of his mind, knowing the responses would take more time than he had the mental space to worry about. The odds that the first would come back tonight, after everything… Fucking uncanny.
What were they missing?
“Which realm, and what did they say?” he asked, nodding to the guards as they pushed into the great hall.
“See for your damned self.”
The rich scent of grilled fish and roasted vegetables hit him, the fare passing by on large platters.
Most of the Horned City was probably having supper down in the square, drinking and dancing as anticipation for the Occurrence reached a fever pitch, but the hall was still swarming—except for one empty corner.
“Vann?”
A warm grin spread across Mag’s face in answer.
The Demons closest to Valandyrian aht Bordoroth, Second Imperial Son, gave him a wide berth, lost somewhere between awe and unease. They were well aware of who was among them—hence the sharp murmurs and wary looks being tossed over their shoulders in his direction.
Brand picked through the crowd, and it was all he could do not to snap at his brethren. None of the rumors were true. His next oldest brother only looked daunting. Otherwise, Vann and Mag had spent a lifetime competing for first place as the most charming male Brand had ever bloody met.
Vann rose slowly to his feet with the ghost of a smile, dipping his head in greeting.
“Hello, little brothers.” A sharply pointed ear stuck out on one side as the satin sheet of his silver hair fell forward, before he straightened and tucked it away.
“I hear you’ve been having all the fun, and saving none for the rest of us. Rude, wouldn’t you say?”
Mag laughed and clapped Vann on the side of the face, drawing him in for a hug. “You’d have been bored to tears.”
“Now, why don’t I believe you?” Vann planted a kiss in Mag’s hair and broke away to dart mismatched eyes over Brand. “Hmm.” Brow furrowed, his head tilted to one side. “Something’s changed.”
The statement hit Brand a hundred different ways—not all of them good. “Truth be told, everything has changed,” he admitted quietly.
Vann nodded and stepped closer, his arms tentatively outstretched. “May I greet you properly?”
Another punch to the gut. It had been quite a while since… since he’d been around anyone who might feel the need to ask.
Refusing most touch outside of sparring was one wall of many he’d inadvertently built over the years—part of an intricate, hardened framework designed to protect himself from… something.
Looking at his brother, at the cautious hope in his expression, Brand suddenly couldn’t recall why he’d done that. Why he’d drawn a line in the sand and only allowed a precious few to cross it. Why Mag and Thad would be exceptions, but not Vann.
Especially considering the sheer amount of damned hugging and crying he’d been doing lately.
No. Not lately. Since… since the feast, weeks ago, when he’d called out to the Sisters and asked for a boon. A desperate plea to be remade. To be given peace and have his spirit eased.
Burning Solyrian, he hadn’t even realized the connection. Luna had come crashing in like a comet the very next morning, upending his carefully structured life in wonderful, mystifying ways—all he’d ever wanted, and exactly what he’d needed.
An answer to prayer.
With her, he could breathe. For her, he could be more.
Aching regret crawled up his throat as he stared at his Fae brother. “Yes,” he finally rasped. “Please.”
Vann chuckled and enveloped him in a gentle embrace, as if afraid Brand would bolt if he squeezed too hard. “There you are,” he whispered. “It’s been a long while.”
Brand huffed into the high collar of Vann’s overcoat. “I saw you two months ago.”
He knew exactly what Vann meant, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not in the great hall where anyone might hear.
“Yes, but”—Vann gave him the customary Fae kiss as well, the accompanying sting of power sending prickles along his scalp—“you were rather peeved that day, if I recall, eh?”
Brand gave him a shove, laughing. “You raised the price on the fabric we Demons rely on almost exclusively to clothe ourselves. Of course I was bloody peeved.”
Vann waved that away. “I was merely the grudging messenger. Speaking of which…” He pulled both of Brand’s letters from an inside breast pocket, the edges already worn and crinkled.
“I’ve brought that thing you requested. Since it was done, and I didn’t feel like waiting alone to hear from Argoph about the other foolery, here I am.
Also”—He retrieved a bottle black as night from some other hidden compartment, followed by the box of rolled herbs he was never without, and flourished both in Brand’s direction—“I’ve missed the particularly stunning view of the Horned City from your balcony. ”
Mag snatched the bottle of enchanted Fae wine with a whistle of appreciation. “Vann, you perfect bastard. If you knew the kind of week we’ve had…”
Vann glanced at the hall and leaned in, voice low. “I know precisely the kind of week you’ve had. Or, at least, enough of it. It’s all anyone is blimmin’ talking about along the chasm border on our side. Surprise! You had an audience.”
“Wonderful,” Mag grumbled. “No one thought to, I don’t know, help?”
“They were too busy spreading the news like wildfire. Everyone in the known world will be sufficiently terrified by this time next week.” Vann tapped his box on Brand’s chest, brows raised. “How about that view?”
Brand sighed, his head hanging. All he wanted was to tear through the castle as fast as his feet would take him, straight back to Luna. To bed and sleep, and the feel of her pressed close.
But… Fuck.
Duty—as ever—was calling.
“So you see why we may have quite the issue on our hands now.”
Vann took another drag of his herbs, the smoke curling around the glowing tip to cast him in a mystical sort of light.
It was the warmest night they’d had all summer, the breeze too quiet to offer much relief. Still, Brand could hear the festival going on in the distant city center, fiddles and drums accompanying the sound of laughter far below.
“We already had our bloody fair share of issues,” Lyriat groaned, sliding down in his chair to rest his head back and stretch his long legs out further.
Discovering dreadbeasts were real had been bad enough.
Learning from his brother that a slew of Fae had witnessed their battle across the chasm before flitting off to tell everyone they knew?
Worse. By this time next month, most of Bordoroth would find themselves with some wild version of the story.
Someone, somewhere, would swear they’d seen ten dreadbeasts with their own eyes. Another would describe injuries and failures that had never taken place. A third would find a way to turn it on the Imperials and Realm Rulers in some sort of conspiratorial diatribe. On and on and…
The result would be a widespread panic that would take all their combined efforts to mitigate—and the idea of having to downplay a colossal fucking problem in order to keep the peace didn’t sit very well.
“Yes,” Vann said. “Hence Brand’s letter. Care to share?”
“Ach, careful,” Mag grumbled from his perch on the balustrade, taking a swig of the Fae wine before passing it to Lyriat with a grin. “He’s as likely to strangle you as answer you.”