Chapter 19
EVANDER
BLACK MOURNING BANNERS drape nearly every building in Hellevig. Wilted rose petals litter the roads, trampled under countless boots, and the pavement is smeared with the wax of a thousand burnt-out vigils. The entire city is grieving the loss of its princess.
I’ve seen my share of grief. Too much, truthfully. In wartime Scillari, when the bodies stacked up faster than we could burn them, our funerals became public events—thousands of vessels floating into the sky, each containing the ash of demis being returned to the stars. You couldn’t escape it.
The “death” of Bryony Devaliant reminds me of those ceremonies—the scents, the shrines on every street. Some deaths leave marks.
I fly unseen above the masses gathered at the palace gates.
Hundreds of bodies are packed together, a sea of black fabric and red veils marking a royal passing.
It’s a credit to Bryony’s status among her people that they’ve come at all.
By now, rumors must have spread that she was an oathbreaker—and traitors don’t get a public mourning.
They don’t get grief. But her? They’re screaming for her.
“Where’s the body? Where’s the princess’ body?”
“Murderers!”
“Princess Bryony lives!”
She’s alive, all right. Wearing my shirts, wandering my tower like she owns the place. My personal plague.
I follow the curve of the Araxes River toward my destination. The wealth of Hellevig’s center gives way to seedier districts as you move outward. Silk Street sits at the border between old money and new poverty, where respectable merchants rub shoulders with criminals.
I land at the old tannery, the only lead I have on the bastards peddling demigod flesh. The stench of smoke and leather hangs heavy in the air as I push through the sagging doorway into what’s left of the building’s interior.
It’s been gutted. Shattered beams drip char onto the floor, and glass litters the ground from the blown-out windows. The debris is minimal, which means the building was stripped before they destroyed it.
Silk Street’s a bust, I tell Alexios, bracing for the brutal crush of his presence. They burned it all.
His consciousness slams into mine. Keep looking anyway. I want a lead. Rip that place apart if you have to.
I crouch next to an overturned table, running my fingers over the gouges in the wood. The kind of marks you get from hacking over and over, really putting your back into it. Just the right size for a big Turpori blade made for chopping through bone.
And underneath the scent of fire and charred wood, I sense it. That ancient energy soaked right into the surface—demigod power. The fresh kind. The dying kind.
Bile stings my throat. An image flashes of bodies strapped to this table, naked and split open. They’d have started at the top of the wings, splintering through cartilage and ligament.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
We’ve got a problem, I tell Alexios. These fuckers aren’t just scavenging battlefields anymore. Someone’s been funneling them fresh kills. There were demis held here within the last week. I can smell it.
Shit. The pressure in my head builds with his anger. All right, I’ll have Zephyr ask around to see where any demis have gone missing.
I turn over a broken crate with my boot and do one last sweep of the building. I’ve found all there is to find here. Should we involve the Dark King?
Let’s wait for Zephyr’s report. Severin might want peace as much as we do, but I’d rather eat nails than deal with him.
The pain in my skull escalates to white-hot agony.
One more thing, if you’re done. Circle Hellevig on your way back, and make sure they see you.
The city is getting bold without the princess’ corpse to weep over. Remind them why they should fear you.
Then he’s gone, the link snapping closed. The pain vanishes in an instant.
With a sigh of relief, I conjure my invisibility and slip out into the daylight. As I wing toward the palace gates, new mourners have amassed by the hundreds, choking the main thoroughfare.
Landing on the public-facing balcony, I spread my wings and let my magic fall away. The throng gapes up at me. It takes a few seconds for it to register—for them to understand what they’re seeing. Who they’re seeing.
Then the panic hits.
Gasps and shrieks echo across the square. People recoil in horror, stumbling over each other in their haste to flee.
I can’t help but grin. Yeah, that’s right. Get a good, long look.
With a strong flap of my wings, I take to the sky again and circle the palace. I hope the image of me is seared into their worthless skulls.
Once the street empties, I land on the large balcony along the palace’s eastern spire. The air reeks of incense and perfume, the balustrade lined with half-melted candles and petals. Someone has left a shrine. A miniature portrait of my Devaliant sits wreathed in black ribbon and roses.
I pick it up, studying the delicate brushstrokes.
They’ve captured her physical beauty well enough—the silvery hair, the luminous skin, those violet irises.
But it’s missing all the ways she snarls and snaps.
The painting shows a porcelain doll; I have the real thing—messy and breathing and full of rage.
“Put it down.” The voice at my back is cool and clipped.
“Princess Theodora, I assume?” I say pleasantly, still examining the portrait.
“You know, this doesn’t look a thing like your sister.
Too perfect. Too pristine. The thing that struck me the first time I saw her was how hungry she looked.
A bit like a cornered animal still pretending to be civilized.
And this?” I flick a dismissive finger against the painted surface.
“It’s dull. Boring. You should burn it, to be honest. It’s offensive. ”
“I said put it down. Or I’ll shove it down your fucking throat.”
I turn slowly. Theodora Devaliant looks about two seconds from tearing out my jugular.
Her red hair is all tangled, her green eyes flashing.
The physical resemblance to her sister is there—a similarity in the features, if not the coloring.
But where my girl runs hot, all restless energy and burning need, this one is cold down to her core.
Even the way she holds herself is different—tightly leashed. In control.
I like seeing the contrast, knowing that my Devaliant is the wild one.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you it’s stupid to threaten gods?” I ask her.
Don’t be rude, my Devaliant said in her note. I have the feeling her sister will make that difficult.
“You aren’t the first arrogant prick from Scillari I’ve told to go fuck himself. Just ask your brother. He’s had the pleasure.”
Of course, Bastien would have crossed paths with Theodora Devaliant during his duties. I wonder if he saw the same thing I do now—that complete absence of fear that would be admirable if it weren’t so foolish. Fucking Devaliants. Challenging monsters everywhere they go.
She takes another step. “Did you come to gloat, or do you get off on tormenting grieving families?”
Huh. I set down the portrait and give her my attention. Let’s see how this plays out. “What exactly am I meant to be gloating over? Be specific.”
“You murdered my sister.” There’s a waver in her voice, a crack in that icy composure. “Hunted her down like an animal and left her to bleed out on the Duehavn. Alone.”
For a moment, I can only stare at her. So this is the tale Hellevig has spun for itself? Me as the black-hearted villain who slaughtered their precious princess? They won’t be wrong, but it’s a little obnoxious that they’re bleating about it when they haven’t even seen my actual work yet.
“She lived and died in service to Alexios,” Theodora continues.
“And she was branded an oathbreaker for crimes she didn’t commit.
What have you done with her body?” When I just raise an eyebrow at her—because honestly, she’s a lot right now—she grabs the front of my shirt.
“Answer me. I don’t give a damn about that mark on her wrist, Bryony’s ashes belong in the crypt with her family. She deserves to have a public pyre.”
I try to remind myself that this woman thinks she’s lost her sister. If I hurt her for the presumption, my Devaliant would never let me hear the end of it. I enjoy her fury, but not that much.
“Be careful,” I say, almost gently. “You aren’t my target today, but I can always make an exception.”
Her fingers tighten. There’s anger in this one, too. No hint of fear. Only fury and grief and something sharper, more bitter. Hate, perhaps. Runs in the bloodline or maybe in the circumstances.
“If you don’t—”
“You’ll what? Cry at me? Make threats?” I pry her grip loose. “Here’s the problem with your tragic little story. If I’d been the one to kill your sister, I wouldn’t have been so sloppy about it. Executing Devaliants is a rare treat these days. I like to take my time. She’s simply misplaced.”
“Misplaced,” she repeats slowly. Processing my words. “Where?”
“Somewhere safe. And rather conveniently out of reach, as it happens.”
She drags in a slow, rattling breath and blinks away the moisture in her eyes. “Is she with you?”
“She’s where she chooses to be. I’ve agreed to deliver the news.”
Theodora’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when did the Wolf of Asteria become a human’s glorified carrier pigeon?”
Damn me, I wish I knew. “Since the human in question became my new favorite distraction,” I snap. What is it with these Devaliant girls? Why do they ask so many questions? “And it might interest you to know she was found bleeding out on the Duehavn. And placed in my care.”
Understanding flashes across her features, quickly masked—but not quick enough. She knows exactly who tried to murder her sister.
“I see,” is all she says.
I could press her for answers. Demand a name. But I want to hear it from my Devaliant’s lips.