Chapter 32
Why is her soul so beautiful?
Why do her memories have to crush my dead heart in a vice?
I slipped.
I looked through them, and it was a big mistake. I try tossing her memories out of my mind like a sinking seaman throws buckets of water from his boat. In a panic.
My mother. I told her about my mother.
Cold air chases the ripped pieces of my tunic as I balance on the broad side of a long spike, my hand gripped around the tallest spire of the castle. The guards marching across the rooftop below are far enough down to resemble rolling pebbles. Back and forth.
My mother.
It was because of Nizzara’s memory, deep in the coves, following Soriah. I felt her heart break when she realized she has no one.
I would’ve refrained from telling her about my mother, if not for the rest of her memories, ones with her father forcing her to eat meat, getting beaten to a realms-damned pulp by Sorren, protecting Yisabell. I remember the time I saw her in the hallway threatening Brunar . . .
It was to protect Yisabell.
I saw the snake ring on her finger and how she told Yisabell she’d never take it off . . .
I should be inside the castle, giving her compliments, making her laugh, promising her the King’s Duel. Doing everything to earn her trust.
The only problem with that—the biggest fucking problem here—is that the smiles, the compliments, the laughs are real.
All because I can’t stay out of her memories. Those sinfully addictive, warm memories.
Up here, the gray fog moves in slow, churning swirls against the howling wind, blinding me from the lands of my kingdom.
One thing is certain.
My mother would like that little beast.
I knew it the moment she put those plates on the bar in spite of her injuries, in spite of the emptiness in her belly, both of which I felt in her memory of the book coves.
I knew it before that, though. When she dropped the second cloak to Palko.
My mother would’ve liked her very much.
I wish that was enough to change things, to deny the will of Nil, but I am a deathwalker, compelled to tear souls. My feelings don’t mean anything.
I think of the rogues outside the city wall. The starvation, the executions, and terrible living conditions for many people in Zarr.
My people need me.
I let go of the spire and free fall toward the pebble-sized guards in black uniforms. I fall until the icy wind coaxes water from my eyes, until the guards are the size of guards. They don’t look up, and at the last possible second, I dissipate.
I’m only doing this to gain Nizzara’s trust.
Not because she was swaying on her feet in the training room.
Manipulating her is wrong, but I lost the chance of being a decent human when I was sucked away to Baratrum.
Gaining her trust. That’s the only reason I’m in my physical form, rummaging through the kitchens. I find mineral biscuits in the pantry, a plate in the black cabinets, and some cheese in the cooling locker.
A scuff comes from outside the kitchen doors. My head snaps in that direction, and I freeze, listening.
I can only imagine the look on the chef’s face if he stumbled in here at this hour to see me, the deceased king dressed in Red’s suit and tie, looking for cheese. Another muffled scuff comes.
After straining to listen, I decide it’s just the guards stationed outside the double doors. I’m about to quietly close the door to the cooling locker when I see a glass pitcher of cart cow milk. I can’t help it. I am doomed to smile every time I see anything to do with a cart cow. That joke in Nizzara’s memory was the funniest damn joke I’ve ever heard.
I’m about to close the big steel door again when it dawns on me. Cart cow milk has a lot of protein, which she needs. Especially for her training sessions with Sorren. I try not to think about that memory of her sparring with him.
Because realms. I felt so much of her in it. How much pain she can take. How she does not quit, even when she is so incredibly outmatched without the use of her vessel. There’s something off about Sorren, and I find myself wondering what realm chewed him up and spat him out.
I pour a glass of milk and, out of habit, try to spirit to her room, but I can’t. I curse the delicate laws of spirit magic. Clothing I am wearing is fine, but not a fucking dinner plate?! I try to spirit away again, but Red’s expensive shoes remain spitefully planted—and visible—on the black marble floor.
How utterly inconvenient.
I survey the servant tunnels, just beyond the pantry, then back to the plate. This is the most idiotic plan, but I sip the milk down from the rim, so it doesn’t spill on my way. And realms damn it, I almost choke laughing because it’s cart cow milk.
I wonder how long it will take the icy monster inside to dull this joke from my mind like it did everything else during my years in Baratrum.
Slinking to the other side of the kitchen, I realize Nizzara made me laugh, something I haven’t done in ten years. Maybe longer.
I also realize I’m risking a lot to bring her a plate of food. No, no, no.
Not bringing her food.
Gaining her trust.
After climbing into the servant tunnel, it dawns on me. I can’t tell her the food is from me, unless I plan on also telling her how I was able to carry it. Something like, “I’m a demon from hell who steals souls, who also tried to run you through with my shadow blade two nights ago, and who still plans on killing you at some point in the near future.”
Hmm. Could use work.
I turn back for the kitchen, abandoning this stupid idea, but stop when the image of her white ponytail whipping in the winter wind as she drops her last cloak between Palko’s cell bars bleeds into my thoughts.
What a cruel little beast to steal my thoughts this way. A thank you. That’s all this is.
For a kindness done to my people . . . And for reminding me what it feels like to laugh.
I accept that reasoning and continue back up the dim tunnel. The dark servant tunnels are a maze behind the walls of the castle with guards positioned near every entrance and exit.
The trek through the arched tunnels is the easy part. Most of the servants are asleep, making quick work up to the fourth floor. But that’s where the tunnels end and Nizzara’s guards begin.
As I near the final length of the tunnel, I set the plate and cup on the ground and turn to spirit. I map out the remaining distance to Nizzara’s tower. One long corridor, then a right, another long corridor, then another right. Then the climb to her tower, where her guards wait.
Including Nizzara’s seven guards, there’s fourteen guards between me and her door. The deathwalker inside my head tells me to forget the plate. This is stupid.
But the old me, buried under the shadows, whispers through the frigid darkness of my soul, “Keep going.”
I find a hallway away from my route and touch down, materializing onto the plush red and gold runner in front of a string of massive paintings. I heave the biggest painting up off its hooks and smash it to the ground, emitting a loud shattering crash of glass throughout the corridor.
Footsteps stampede down the corridors, racing toward me. I turn to spirit over the heads of five guards as they round the corner.
I solidify, grab the food, and run it through the first corridor that’s now empty. When I reach the next corridor, I set the plate and cup down again to peek around the corner. Two more guards stand at the base of Nizzara’s circling staircase, and I know her seven personal guards are at the top.
After turning to spirit, I fly to another hall for another distraction. There are two guards in this hall and no picture frames.
I scan the walls. There’s nothing large enough to make a commotion big enough to warrant all Nizzara’s guards coming running.
I look up. A giant, intricate chandelier dangles halfway between the stretch of hallway, hanging by an iron chain. I soar toward the chain, materialize midair, slice with my blade mid- flip, and phase back to spirit.
The chandelier takes three whole seconds to plummet before thundering against the marble floors. The red and gold rug does little to soften the sound as black shards of crystal gems, spikes, and chains explode from the point of impact. Brunar and five of his guards come running, meaning he left one at Nizzara’s door.
I make another run with the food and hide it at the base of the steps before turning to spirit to deal with the last guard. I’m about to materialize behind him and land a blow to his temple when a guard calls for him below. He grips his sword and stalks down the steps.
I return for the plate and am darting up the last stretch of stairs toward Nizzara’s door when the air freezes around me.
Baratrum ice creeps along the walls, pooling to an empty space beside me. I set the plate and glass down with a soft tap onto the marble floor, and my shadow blade is in my hand before I’m fully turned to the source.
“You always did make a good delivery boy.” The figure emerges from the dark corner of the dead-end hall.
“Fen,” I say, ice rolling through my dead veins. “What do you want?”
“What? No warm greeting for your brother-in-arms?”
He swings his shadow blade like a pendulum at his side as he strides toward me. Shadows cling to his frost-burned fingers. His black hair is ice-blown, and his eyes have the shade of death every deathwalker does.
When I tighten my grip on my hilt in answer, he smiles. “I’m just here to bring you a message from our handler.”
I think back to what I told Helina about surviving the shadows. Fen, I’m sure, had other methods of surviving them.
Footsteps begin trodding up the base of the stairs. Nizzara’s guards.
“Say your message, then.”
His gaze pointedly falls to the plate of food outside Nizzara’s door, then back to me, smiling. “I came to remind you what will happen if you fail your side of the bargain.”
Ice forms down my arms. I step toward him, the tip of my shadow blade edging closer to his worn uniform.
“I know what will happen.”
The climbing footsteps grow closer.
He grins, looking every bit the ruthless, pillaging war general from his past life. “I also came to inform you that I will be your replacement if you fuck up.” He leans his shoulder against Nizzara’s door. “Considering how delicious she looks through your memories, I really hope you fuck up.”
My jaw tightens. “You can tell Nil I received his message.”
Fen flashes a memory into his thoughts, knowing full well I will see it. It’s him, seducing a woman before tearing her soul from her flesh.
“I bet the princess will moan for me like a—”
I plunge my blade toward his chest, but he vanishes into inky mist before contact, only to materialize behind me. I can’t kill him with my blade, but damn, it would be satisfying to bury it through his flesh. It would still be every bit as painful for him.
“You’re down to two moon cycles,” he taunts before returning to spirit once more and leaving the castle.
I knock on the door before turning to spirit. The guards round the corner and Nizzara opens the door, dressed in a long bath robe, her hair wet.
Her eyes dart to the plate of food then directly at me in my spirit form, before narrowing.
“Halt,” Brunar says, noticing the plate.
Nizzara goes to pick up the plate, but Brunar points his finger at her. “I said halt!”
She pins him with a glare worthy of the creatures in Baratrum, and he sputters an apology.
“There were two disturbances on the lower level,” he explains.
She lifts the plate. “They weren’t caused by a plate of biscuits, were they?”
“They could be poisoned, a trap—”
When her black eyes narrow on his face again, he flinches and averts his gaze.
Suddenly, a memory of hers flashes into my eyes. The dining room snaps into place around me, and I am in Nizzara’s point of view and—
I can’t breathe. Mazzar’s hand is crushing my neck. Fear, and pain, and rage slash through me as Brunar and his men stand by.
Doing nothing.
Nizzara’s thumping pulse thuds slower and slower beneath Mazzar’s vice-like fingers. Her vision darkens, fading in and out through the memory until Mazzar releases her. I catapult from the memory, gasping for my own air.
She shoves a biscuit up to Brunar’s nose. “Are you willing to test them for me?”
He closes his eyes.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, and takes a bite of the biscuit herself, and I know it’s just to spite him. Poison or no.
With the monster still scraping its icy claws up my throat to slay her guards, I decide to wait until it calms before following Nizzara into her room.