Chapter 24
C athal dies fast.
Too fast. He deserved to suffer as he rotted away, deserved to look into Ileana’s eyes while he chased his final breaths. The same eyes that watched him while he violated her, while he allowed his flunky soldiers to do the same. The eyes that undoubtedly shed countless tears when she was alone. There is comfort in that part, I suppose. If there is one thing in this life I am sure of, it’s that Cathal never got to experience the satisfaction of watching Ileana cry from his torment. She is tougher than me, especially back then.
I cried the night he raped me.
I cried even harder when his friends did. Cried while he rubbed his dick as he watched them take me, one after the other, reminding me every few seconds why I deserved it. That a bloodwitch’s only worth could be found on her back and her knees.
No—Cathal did not deserve to look upon Ileana as her knife quickly bled out his life. His death was so swift, unmonumental… dull . He wasn’t sacrificed in battle, did not get to die doing something that could ever be twisted to make him out a martyr. Killed by the woman who most deserved to make him bleed his own black blood.
The three of us say nothing as we stare down at his corpse, Ileana’s dagger still firmly planted in his ruined throat. Eldridge stopped transition the second she attacked him, and I glance at him now to find his eyes trained entirely on Ileana. His expression is searching, trying to read the Black Hand’s blood-splattered face. There isn’t a lick of dark humor on his face, not even a shadow of a sarcastic remark. Eldridge… he cares for her , far more so than his playful teasing has alluded to.
I look at Ileana then and find her face made of glass. Sharp, rigid, but her breathing does not match the impassiveness of her expression. Her chest rises and falls in quick, erratic beats, breathing through her nose as her lips don’t dare break the hard line they’ve pressed themselves into. And then without a word to either of us, she turns on her heels, gathers her skirts, and walks off with her chin tilted towards the setting sun.
She waves to a pair of patrolling guards rounding the corner, their eyes widening as they take in the gruesome sight behind her. They rush to her at once, and after the Hand says something I can’t decipher, they quickly nod and rush towards us.
Eldridge finally turns to look at me, and we share a moment of silent solace. His stormy eyes ask so much of me without having to open his mouth. I nod tightly, answering his unspoken question.
I am alright. I always have been, and I will be now. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a foreign feeling scampering inside my chest, a mixture of adrenaline and relief… and anger . I shouldn’t be angry. The man that scarred me in more ways than one lies dead at my feet. But suddenly, the scars on my back from where his whip bit into me ache, as if his death peeled back the healed skin and marred it anew.
“I need to go to her,” Eldridge says, his eyes following Ileana as she heads towards the castle, her steps hastening the closer she gets to the entrance.
“She will refuse you,” I warn.
Humpf . “I won’t let her. If she truly wishes to be alone, then I will wait outside her door until she does not. But Slaine run me through before I let her think for one second she is alone in this. We all hated him, but none more so than her.”
I study him. There’s a softness to his eyes I’m unaccustomed to seeing in my burly friend. A tenderness. I lay a hand on his forearm. “You care for her.”
He whips his head towards me again, his lips parting to bark a retort, but something gives him pause. A moment later, he blows out a long breath, shaking his head quickly as he does. “’Pose I do. She’s… I’ve had the displeasure of meeting lots of people—far too many, actually—and she… she is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She’s smart. A good leader. And she’s tough as hell.”
His tone is so careful, reserved, like he’s considering each word before he speaks it. A small smile tugs at my mouth; Ileana has him utterly and helplessly out of sorts.
“However tough you think she is, triple it. She’s stronger than anyone. I just wish she didn’t have to be all the time.” We’re quiet for another moment as we watch the approaching guards draw nearer. They’re almost to us now. “She’s very beautiful,” I add quietly, unable to mask the knowing smirk on my face.
He grunts an agreement. “Too beautiful. Can never fucking think straight around her.” Eldridge dips his head then and takes off towards the castle, chasing after the woman that has my wolfish friend acting irrevocably sheepish .
I take my own leave, nodding to the guards as I step around Cathal’s body. They drop to his side at once and begin verifying that he really is deceased, as if the knife protruding from his jugular wasn’t tell enough. I make my way to my bedchamber to grab fresh clothing to bring to the bathhouse, desperately needing to wash away the aroma of death and slip into clothes not crusted with blood.
The castle is eerily quiet when I enter, the only sound the rhythmic clacking against stone as a few servants scuttle about. None of them bid me or my soiled leathers a second glance as I rush past, taking the stairs quickly to the floor of my chambers. When I reach my story, a familiar face stops me short, a frown twisting his pale pink lips.
“Don’t tell me blood makes you squeamish, Commander.”
Vox gives me a tight grin, canting his head to the side. “Just because I am a bringer of death does not mean I need to smell like it, blood mage. Perhaps that is advice you should heed,” he says with a pointed look to my unclean leathers.
“Precisely why I’m heading to my room and not outside licking the blood off corpses. Well, not anymore.” I wink, and his grin stutters, as if he’s unsure if I’m being facetious or not. “It was a joke, Vox.”
A short laugh. “Yes, of course. It seems the violence from the day has left me on edge. Would you…” he trails off, his pale brows furrowing as if unsure how to proceed with his question.
“Would I?” I prompt.
His face smooths, and he dips his head, offering a slight smile. “I was wondering if you were still interested in reading more of our ancient texts. We could meet again tonight. Perhaps have a drink while we do. I think we both have earned the right to indulge in a little elven wine, do you not?”
Something about his question makes me pause. It isn’t that he asked if I wanted to meet him again tonight—absolutely I do. Anything that might lead to more information regarding seer magic, how the elves are binding Sin’s blessing inside the dagger, and where Vox is keeping the damn weapon must be made a priority. It’s not Vox’s question, but his nervousness , particularly when he mentioned us sharing a bottle of wine. It’s not as if the commander is flirting with me. Surely, he wouldn’t. He may not be the Black Art’s biggest supporter, but he’s not a fool. He wouldn’t cross Singard.
Would he?
No. Definitely not.
“I’d love to hire you for your translation services again tonight,” I say. “And by hire, I mean I will pay you with my oh-so charming personality and mediocre socialization skills.”
His grin stretches into a full-blown smile, and he bends forward in a mock bow. “I’ll bring the wine.”
He steps around me and heads down the stairs, and I steer left, making for my chambers. As I walk, our conversation replays in my mind, and I wonder: just how much wine does it take to inebriate an elf?
The sight of my bedchamber makes me sick. Just this morning, I was confined here against my will, terrified my family and friends were going to be slaughtered by an enemy I couldn’t see, couldn’t defend them against. Caged in here like a dog.
A prisoner .
I grab my satchel and begin stuffing it with a change of clothes and some toiletries, refusing to look at any of his belongings. That is a conversation that will inevitably occur, but I don’t have the mental fortitude to grant energy to it right now.
A part of me knows Ileana is right. At least about some of it. Perhaps my actions were foolish. Perhaps I did more harm by risking exposure than if I had stayed put. But what if someone else hadn’t intervened and saved Eldridge? What if the elves hadn’t made it to Torin’s ship without the help of my shield? Logic tells me there is sense in Ileana’s words, but my heart sings a different tune. One that can’t stand the idea of something having happened to those I love while I furiously beat my fists against a locked door.
Fists that still ache from the beating they endured in these chambers before I was forced to siphon my escape from an elf’s jugular. Fists that wanted to punch into Sin when he tried to goad me into striking him, when he?—
When he had touched his head and winced. Twice . Right after Torin’s vessels began retreating.
I would have smelled if he was bleeding, but the red on his armor was not his own, and his face didn’t appear to have suffered so much as a single bruise. It is unlike the dark mage to ever show the extent of his physical hurts, and something about the way he recoiled, as if the pain had been sharp and unexpected, its cause unknown.
As if something—or someone —had wormed their way into his mind.
The sudden ache in Sin’s head, severe enough to coax a reaction from him, could have been a result of the stress his body had just endured fighting his way to the ship. Nothing more than a mundane reaction to a secular war, but I’ve seen Sin fight in far bloodier battles without so much as an utterance of physical distress. And his hurt on the vessel didn’t look physical.
It looked innate .
And suddenly I am sure, my betrothed has a parasite.
Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I head to Sin and my private bathhouse. I wash quickly, not wanting to chance running into him here. The hour is late, and who knows how much longer I have before his work is finished, when the last of the devastation has been sorted and dealt with.
Before he inevitably comes looking for me.
He’s pissed at me too. Maybe he should be. Maybe I was impulsive. Maybe I was too quick to distrust his judgment. But I didn’t deserve to be locked in that fucking room. Perhaps these headaches can provide a tell for when the seer is pulling on the tether she linked to Sin’s collective, a way to know when it is safe to tell him about the deal I made with Torin.
I dress with haste, stepping into a simple, long, maroon-colored skirt and a white off-the-shoulder blouse, and secure the ties of my brown bodice under my bust. When the brush finally glides through my unbound hair with ease, I accept that I am decent enough and head for the library.
Vox is waiting for me this time, a chalice dangling loosely between two fingers as he relaxes in one of the oversized chairs on the main level. He rises when I approach, crossing to the table along the wall and picks up the slender neck bottle of wine and a second goblet. He pours a generous amount of the dark liquid and hands it to me before settling back in his chair. I take my place across from him, sniffing the wine.
“Not checking it for poison this time, just enjoying the aroma,” I say above the lip.
He chortles and extends his drink to me. “To alliances with newfound trust then,” he says, and I touch my cup to his.
The wine is velvety smooth and incredibly sweet. Blackberry juice bursts across my tongue, cut with the faintest twinge of sweet orange and cinnamon. I close my eyes as I swallow, relishing the taste and the warm burn in my chest as I ingest the drink.
When I reopen them, I notice there are no books on the small table between us. In fact, there are no books in his possession at all. “I thought we could delve into more… personal histories tonight,” he says, noting where my eyes have strayed. “Unless your heart was set on reading from dusty old tomes, of course.”
I lean back and cross my leg over the other. “What kind of personal histories?”
“I have my own curiosities. About your kind.”
“I thought you were the expert, given your six thousand years of life.” I smile sweetly at him, unable to fully stop myself from chuckling at my own joke.
He tilts his chalice in my direction again. “It seems we both have curiosities. Care for a night of swapping secrets, then?” he asks. “I’ll tell one if you do.”
There it is again—a tickle of paranoia. A dangerous game, but I’m not a fool. I’ll just be cautious of what I say, and perhaps I can spin this in my favor. The fact that the wine bottle was near empty when I arrived did not escape my notice, and I’m not even certain that was the first bottle he opened.
I uncross my legs and kick off my sandals, tucking my feet behind me on the chair. “Might as well get comfortable. Plus, I never share secrets unless I’m barefoot.” He raises an eyebrow, and I scoff. “Perhaps a witch’s superstition, but it’s bad luck,” I add.
Dark amusement washes through me as he studies me as if I am more convoluted than the leather tomes lining the walls around us. “I’ll go first. How old are you, Vox? Just know that if it’s anything less than a thousand, I’m going to be disappointed.”
He leans back, stretching an arm out so it rests across the top of his chair, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. He’s dressed nicely in a deep blue vest and dark trousers, and his braided hair is pulled behind him and loosely tied. Handsome by most standards, if you can look past his loyalty to a self-serving high priestess.
“Four hundred and twelve. Sorry to disappoint you, blood mage.” He takes a deep pull from his drink while I consider that, and when he lowers it, he adds, “Today is my birthday.”
I balk at that. “You certainly know how to pick a date.”
He nods slowly, pursing his lips in feigned concentration. “Yes, in hindsight, it would have been better to stage Torin’s attack after my special day. Perhaps I’ll remember that for next year, should I live to see it.”
“Watch it, elf,” I warn smoothly.
His dark eyes somehow brighten at that, and his grin grows positively conniving. “Your turn.”
I wave my hand for him to proceed, and he leans forward, lazily resting his forearms on his thighs. Unusual to see the commander so relaxed; I wasn’t sure he was even capable of slouching. He cocks his head to the side when he asks, “If you could change what you are, take away your blood magic completely, would you?”
“Not a question I was expecting.” I tilt my chalice up and swallow the remainder of the drink.
“What—were you expecting me to ask you the color of your undergarments?” He rises, collects both our cups, and begins pouring both of us more wine.
I smirk at his back, wishing I had one of those heavy tomes to lob at him. “No, because that might imply you were flirting with me, and for one, I’m not sure you know how to flirt, Commander Fionnlagh, and two, I don’t think my betrothed would much care for other men knowing the color of my night things.”
Vox chortles, his long blond hair swishing across his back as he turns and hands me my chalice, now full. “So, are you going to answer the question I did ask, or are you a cheat?”
I eye the wine in my cup, mulling over the part of my brain cautioning me to not drink too much. I’ve always been a lightweight, and it’s Vox I wish to further inebriate, not myself. It won’t do me any good if I can’t remember what I manage to pry from his lips tonight.
“No.”
The elf sits in his chair, leaning forward with his hands draped over his knees, chalice loosely tucked between two fingers again. “Why not?”
“It’s awfully personal.”
“Consider it a birthday gift.”
I narrow my eyes which makes his grin reappear. I’ve never noticed how crooked his smile was before. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol loosening the muscles he so rarely uses.
“Almost everything bad in my life is because of what I am. I was hated by my mother, ousted from my family home when I was very young, forced to make my way on the streets before Cosmina found me. I spent much of my life hiding from Cathal, always terrified that he’d find me. I was raped, beaten, and held captive because of what I am, and then when Sin learned what I was, he—” I exhale sharply, collecting my thoughts before they overwhelm me. “Well, you know what he did.”
The amusement suddenly drains from his face, and the light in his eyes dims to the darkest black. He speaks carefully when he asks, “Did the Black Art ever force himself on you?”
I shake my head. “No. Never. Sin was… Sin was cruel to me in many ways, but he’s not that kind of monster.”
His posture relaxes some, and I continue, uncomfortable with speaking of Sin without him present. “But if my birth parents hadn’t kicked me out, I never would have met my sister, and without her, I never would have met the rest of my chosen family. I cannot begin to describe to you how much they mean to me. And if I hadn’t been betrayed by Cathal, I never would have met Ileana. Our relationship is rocky, and I know she may not ever forgive me for leaving her in that camp, but I love her all the same. And if I hadn’t been captured by Cathal, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to escape, and I would have never met Sin. He’s to be my Mate. How could I possibly regret the part of myself that led me to him?”
“I take that to mean him locking you away hasn’t sullied your plans to Bond with him?”
“I have plenty of words to share with him before that happens, trust me.”
“To my surprise, I do,” he says, swirling the wine in his chalice, but he doesn’t take another pull. “It isn’t in my nature to trust outsiders. Our alliance with the Black Art is unsteady, and I suspect half of his own army wants to turn on him but are too frightened to ever try. And if I’m being blunt, blood mages aren’t exactly regarded for their loyalty in alliances, are they?”
He’s not wrong. Just the scent of blood consumes us well before we consume it. We become animalistic, and like all predators, we are quick to defend whichever side we think is most likely to persevere. But if I am living proof of anything, it’s that my kind can resist that dark urge if the longing in our hearts outweighs the desire on our tongues.
“But I have been around long enough—four hundred and twelve years as you learned—to recognize an ally when I see one. Thank you for that… Wren.”
His pale brows knit together as if he’s perplexed by why he’s sharing this at all, but he quickly wipes the confusion away with a shake of his head. “I brought you something,” he says instead. “A gift.”
“You cannot give me a gift on your birthday,” I chastise. “And I’m sorry that I don’t have anything for you. I didn’t know.”
“Your company is more than I could have hoped for tonight. This day is not one I hold with fondness.” He doesn’t elaborate but merely reaches behind his chair and retrieves a small velvet box.
I take it from his hand but eye it curiously before opening.
“It’s nothing purchased. It belonged to a close friend of mine a long time ago. Aloisa. She is no longer with us”—he clears his throat—“and I’ve been holding onto it for centuries.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Vox. I cannot accept this—whatever it is. It is important to you.”
“Just open it, blood mage. Please.”
I hold his stare for a moment, but it’s impossible to read his obsidian eyes, and his pale features have hardened back to granite. Not wanting to be rude, I open the box.
“Oh my. It is stunning,” I breathe.
And I mean it. Resting within the box is a silver comb. Gold plated leaves and sculptural white flowers frame the long, fine teeth, and nestled at the center of each flower is a blood-red ruby, the elves’ favored gem. I run my fingers across it, admiring the intricate details carved into the veined leaves and how the candlelight glimmers in the silver, a perfect mirror.
“May I?” Vox asks, reaching for the comb.
He walks to the back of my chair, and my scalp tingles as the teeth graze across it, sliding perfectly into my thick hair. “There was never anyone I wanted to give it to. Until I met you. A purely platonic gift—it is not my wish for you or His Grace to think my intentions are anything other than an attempt at friendship. Do you like it?” he asks, moving to stand in front of me as he admires his friend’s comb in my hair.
I reach up and stroke the accessory. “It is perfect. Thank you for such a gift, Vox. I will honor Aloisa’s memory when I wear it.”
“That means a great deal to me. She was a light in this world. No matter what darkness fell upon us over the years, she found a way to shine through it all. She was there for me during a particularly dark time in my life, and I’m not sure I would have emerged as the same person without her friendship.”
He clasps his hands behind his back and walks to where the fire crackles softly in the hearth. I watch as he stares into the flames, his tone shifting from the casual, liquor-loosened demeanor to something more serious, more thoughtful.
“You mentioned that this day is not one you reflect on fondly. Does Aloisa have something to do with that?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and just as I’m about to apologize for prying, he shifts his weight, clearing his throat. “In part, yes. I told you before I would be willing to share more about myself if you truly wanted to know, but you must be aware there are parts of my past that aren’t exactly jovial in nature.”
I straighten in my chair, setting my chalice down on the table, and clasp my hands in my lap. “I’d love to know more about you, but only what you’re willing to share. I don’t want to push you into talking about something you don’t want to.”
“It would be nice to tell someone, actually. It’s been… a long time since I’ve ever spoken of it.”
He pauses, and I remain quiet while he gathers his thoughts, the spitting flames the only sound in the room. Until he finally begins. “I told you a little about Veara. I shared some of her cruelty but not all of it. The priestess would have everyone believe she kept me under her wing for so long because she truly believed I was something special, that my purpose would be revealed to her in time. But it didn’t take more than a few decades for it to become apparent that I wasn’t suited for Source-wielding. I was a fighter—through and through, just as my lineage would have me be. But still, she insisted I remain with her, and as I got older, her rage grew deeper. As did her… affection for me.
“I did not return her fondness but refusing her quickly led to worse consequences. She made threats, ones I did not perceive lightly because she did not intend them as such. Veara was a priestess of her word, and on my one-hundredth birthday, she came to collect on those threats. She presented me with an ultimatum—I succumbed to her desires, or she would bestow ill blessings on my family and friends. It was selfish of me, but I resisted her anyway. I understand one-hundred sounds plenty old in human years, but that is the age we mature in elven culture. Veara was centuries my senior, and she raised me after my Placement; her interest and advances were concerning on far more than one account. She was furious that night, when I would not give myself to her the way she wanted. It was less than a fortnight later that Aloisa grew so clammy, her muscles these limp, little things. Veara refused to admit it, but I’m certain, with every fiber of my being, that she did that to her. That it was her ill will that sickened my friend.
“She died a few days later. It was… She wore that comb often, and I carried it around with me for a long time. It was comforting to have a piece of her near me, even in the form of something so secular. But I’ve stopped carrying it with me a century ago, and so it sat in my quarters with the rest of the items I safe-guarded. Truth be told, I didn’t much care for it being so close to Aeverie’s belongings and such. It felt wrong. Like she deserved to be separated from the magic that was her undoing in the end. Not Aeverie’s, but a priestess’s magic all the same. It would be a great honor for me if its ownership will pass to you now.”
Vox finally turns and meets my eyes, and I promptly close my mouth that must have dropped open sometime during his story. It becomes very clear to me that this gift isn’t about Aloisa at all. It’s about Vox. Choosing to finally release this part of his past that has troubled him for centuries.
I stand and walk to where he stands, holding his stare as I do. “It is me who is honored to be given something so special. I will treasure it always. And thank you, Vox, for sharing that with me. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.” I reach out and touch his forearm, giving it a slight squeeze before lowering my hand to my side.
“It is partially why I owe so much to Aeverie. After Aloisa’s despair, Veara’s advances only grew stronger. She became consumed with the idea of binding me to her so completely. I am deeply regretful to admit that I succumbed to my fear, horrified of who she would hurt next if I didn’t please her how she wanted. It is my deepest regret, and my greatest shame.”
Pain spiderwebs across my heart, and I press a hand to my chest as if I could balm the hurt. Anger quickly follows, settling deep into the crevices his pain fractured there. “Oh, Vox. You don’t need to feel ashamed. She was a monster. A predator . You did what you had to do to survive. There is no shame in that.”
“Aeverie long suspected the priestess’s intentions for me, and when those suspicions were confirmed, she dealt Veara a death no less than she deserved. When Aeverie Ascended, she invited me to begin training to take my place as commander. She did not require it of me, but I had nowhere else to go. I was an outsider to all castes, and so I accepted her offer.
“The other warriors met me with a lot of resistance, and I do not blame them. They had been training their entire lives for the opportunity to step into my role, but being commander was always my birthright, regardless of how desperately Veara tried to strip that from me. I respect them for needing me to prove my worth to them before they accepted me, and when it was time for me to replace the former commander, my advancement was met with pride, not disdain. They trusted me, and that is something I value greatly. Hence”—he inclines his head to gesture to the comb in my hair. “In short, thank you for being someone I can trust.”
His words warm me, and I want to return them. To say the feeling is mutual. I want to trust Vox, and while I don’t think he’d intentionally harm me, there is no denying his loyalty for Aeverie runs far deeper than blood. I value his friendship for more than just the strategic advantage it provides, but that doesn’t mean I have forgotten how Sin looked when he collapsed with an elven blade through his chest. Or who that blade belonged to.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to share that part of your story with me,” I respond instead, and I mean it. But a frown sculpts my mouth as a thought settles in my mind. “When you warned me before about Sin, in the cargo hold…” I trail off, recalling when he cautioned me that Sin’s carnal instincts would be running rampant now, including his desire to claim , in every sense of the word.
“I didn’t mean to anger or offend you. I just didn’t want to see you endure something I am too familiar with. Not again, anyway. I am sympathetic to our shared experiences, yours far more violent than my own. Cathal’s death will not be mourned.”
“I know what violent love looks like. Cathal was savage—a monster consumed with the need to dominate. Sin is grappling to cage his instincts, far more so than he displays, but there is not a single fiber in my being that believes he would ever hurt me. Not again. And certainly not like that. His beast is strong, but his heart is stronger. I just wish he would let more people see it.”
Vox watches thoughtfully, his expression giving no tell to his true thoughts. “He is very lucky to have someone help find the parts of him that have not been entirely lost to darkness. No—not someone. He is lucky to have you .”
I dip my knees into a curtsy. “It has been a pleasure, Vox. Thank you for the conversation and… thank you for being a friend.” That feels safe enough to say. I am grateful to have a friend in this place. The fact that he is also a connection to the elves is merely a bonus. “I should take my leave. Unfortunately, I do have another conversation that needs to happen tonight, though, I doubt the next one will be as pleasant. Take care, Commander.”
The elf bids his farewell, and I leave the library. With a sharp inhale and a straightening of my shoulders, I head for my bedchamber.