16 #2
“Well, that was a very fine leap,” she said after a moment. Despite the pulse that thundered in her head, her voice came light and even by sheer habit.
“Thank you, Miss Cadessa,” Felix answered. Dash it, the man hadn’t even the decency to sound breathless. “Are you unhurt?”
“Right as rain, old boy.”
“Beg pardon. It’s not my habit to seize ladies in that fashion.”
“Not at all. Politest arrest I’ve ever had.”
After all, it didn’t hurt to be civil when her life lay in the fellow’s hands.
A moment later, something pricked her wrist, and leaden warmth rolled out into her body. The last thing Myria saw was the prefect’s amiable smile before she slid beneath the darkness of the drug.
“She’s waking up.”
Something dredged her wits up from the mire and cast them unceremoniously ashore. Myria uttered a groan. Her head felt like the aftermath of a Carysium Street revel.
Then, a blade of fear cut through the fog. She froze in place.
She sat in a chair, bound and blindfolded by arcana. It wound in silver strings about her limbs, filling her mouth with the tang of pepper and pine. Her wits came back to her in one hammer blow.
Trapped.
Panic forked like lightning in her chest. She’d been caught—and not just by Aurelias. Her second pursuer was there. She could feel their power on the air, so strong it made her teeth ache.
Time lurched off its rails. They had her. Pantheon above, she’d underestimated Aurelias, and she’d pay the devil’s price for it. There was no help coming. Her friends were gone. Damn, her friends. Dread flashed like an oil fire in her stomach. Felix knew she wasn’t working alone. They’d be next.
Then the frantic rattle in her head stopped short.
Protect them. The thought drove a stake through the teetering world and pinned it into place. Protect them. No matter how.
Myria cleared her throat and drew herself upright in her chair. “Good . . . morning? Evening?” she said. “Is that one Felix Aurelias?”
“It is, Miss Cadessa.”
“Capital. Glad that blow to the head didn’t do you any permanent damage. That said . . . drugging me, sir? Not gentlemanly. Not at all.”
“I do apologize,” he said. To her surprise, that tone was one of real regret. Against all reason, a twinge of guilt assailed her.
“And I,” she said. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t find yourself tangled up in this. Still . . . best save it for private hour, eh? We’ve a guest.”
The veil of darkness whipped back, and she stared up into a beautiful and fearsome face.
Gloriana Valora. Even she knew the great centurion by sight.
There was no mistaking that kind of woman; small insects turned to ash within three feet of her.
The wind didn’t ruffle her hair without asking permission first.
“Centurion,” said Myria, bowing in her chair. “Glad to know I’m sought after at the highest levels of Carinth society.”
“Glad?” the centurion echoed, regarding her with cool distaste. “It’s novel, I’ll grant you.”
“I’d not pretend at novelty, ma’am,” she said. “I’d never hear the end of it if I lost the great game to the prefecture. Gloriana Valora, though . . . my reputation could survive it.”
“You’re quite civil, for a criminal.”
“It’s hardly prudent to be otherwise.”
“In which case, would you be civil enough to tell me where your comrades are?”
Nothing for it. Keep your mouth shut, come what may.
“I regret that I’m a lonesome scoundrel, ma’am,” said Myria. The centurion raised an eyebrow.
“I saw them, Miss Cadessa.”
“Trick of the light,” she answered. No use trying to make the lie convincing.
A frown cut Prima Gloriana’s brow. She set a foot on the front of Myria’s chair and leaned toward her.
“A word of warning,” she said levelly. “I expect you’re used to toying with the law. If you imagine you can toy with me, you’ll have a painful education to the contrary. I know that some of your accomplices from the Elysius Vault survived. I know you broke into Haideum Castle.”
“Really? Someone’s been defaming me,” she said. A hint of sourness crossed her captor’s face. Felix shifted on the spot, eyes full of warning.
“Let me be clear,” said Gloriana. “Hand them over, and there’s a bargain to be made.
Spite me, and . . .” The centurion suddenly conjured an orange and began tossing it in her palm.
“You know, my father used to peel the skin off these in one long coil, like a snake. I loved it. Even learned to do it myself.” She cocked her head, drew back and smiled. “On war criminals.”
The image invaded her mind’s eye, and her stomach revolted. Felix paled rapidly.
Got to be a bluff. That’s too . . .
Then she looked up to the centurion’s golden eyes, and found her smiling still. Dread coiled in Myria’s chest. That woman had marched to a dozen wars. Killed thousands. That life could blunt anyone to human suffering.
Involuntary tremors seized Myria’s body. The bill had come due, far too soon.
Then it’s yours to pay, she bit back with a bolt of anger. Her friends’ lives were in her keeping. She’d run them headlong into danger once. Never again. If sheer spite was her only shield, so be it.
“Commendably creative, ma’am, but you’ll find me a waste of your artistry,” she said. “I have no comrades. You’ll have to make do with me.”
Gloriana twitched a finger, and pain speared through Myria’s chest. She doubled over as it lodged there like a splinter, then radiated out into her bones—searing sharp, and growing stronger, until she could barely hold back a scream.
Then, it lifted. She hauled in one shuddering breath before Gloriana rammed her back against the chair.
“Hand them over, or you can spend the rest of your long life praying you were in that little pain,” the woman murmured in her ear.