Chapter Twenty-Six #2
She scoffs, snatching the shoe from my hands. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve endured worse. Shoes shouldn’t do this.” She gives the clenched shoe a shake. “You should have said something.”
“I wasn’t going to cause an uproar about it today,” I say, removing the other. Both feet flat on the cool marble is a kind of heaven I’ve taken for granted. “I—”
A deep, familiar laughter peals through the hall, coming from the direction of the foyer. It’s the kind of wicked, antagonistic laugh I’ve heard countless times.
“Ves?” Eve calls after me. “Ves, what are you doing?”
Voices become clearer as I emerge into the foyer.
“Sovereign Queen Vestaris is currently with other guests.”
Cyran…
“Tell her I’m here and tell her I come bearing gifts.”
I stop dead in my tracks as my eyes fall upon my twin. He and Cyran stand near the center of the foyer, beside the fountain. Eve appears beside me and pries the other shoe from my crushing grip.
“Without an invitation, I cannot admit—”
“Cyran,” I call out and his face whirls. “Please step away.”
He does not realize he’s standing before the god of death.
My feet set forward as cerulean eyes meet mine.
How is it possible for Vaelyn to look nothing like my twin I’ve known for centuries and everything like our father? Gone is his long silver hair, now short cropped and styled. Gone are the black leathers he’d wear, abandoned in favor of a fine suit in a shade of crimson I’ve grown to hate.
He appears fae.
A glamour.
Just as Netharis used to wear.
The worst part of it all, he greets me as if he hasn’t been pulling strings behind the curtain—as if he hasn’t been using me, involving me in his schemes.
“Ves,” Vaelyn greets with a grin. He throws his arms wide. “Heavens, you look sinful.”
Not even in the hells did Vaelyn ever so openly greet me with such warmth.
I stop. More than a healthy distance away. I’ve no bloodstone dagger to protect myself against this god.
“What are you doing here, Vaelyn?” I demand, tone cold. “What do you want?”
Hurt flashes across his features.
“Is that how it is now? Vaelyn? Not Vae?” he asks, lowering his arms.
Cyran, finally understanding the situation, vanishes in a swirl of sparkling ice.
Taking a few steps forward, Vaelyn tucks his hands into his pockets as he drags his piercing stare over Eve and me.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, his voice soft.
I feel the same. Perhaps that’s exactly what I’m looking at—the ghost of someone carried on through a bloodline.
He shakes his head in a slow, rueful toss. “A pity. You spend a few months in the living realm and we’re estranged. I hoped for more from you, Ves.”
“We became estranged the moment you chose to use me in your fight with the Layer Lords,” I retort.
The god of death laughs.
And what a chilling, dark sound it is.
“You know how the Layer Lords can be,” he argues with a sigh.
A warm hand on the small of my back surprises me as Ryc steps in beside me, his eyes fixed on Vaelyn. Rowen appears beside him, and Fenryn beside Eve.
Vaelyn’s gaze sweeps the line and he smiles.
“Impressive line up,” he teases in Malbolge. “I promise I’m not a threat.”
“The god of death is always a threat,” Eve counters and Vaelyn laughs in surprise.
“Contracted?” he asks me, pointing at Eve. His stare turns scrutinous. “Yes. Contracted and to a thorn in my side no less.” He scoffs. “If Druka ever becomes brave enough to step out of hiding, you won’t be contracted for long.”
Vaelyn holds out a hand, his palm upturned, and in a blaze of hellfire an obsidian box with a large black ribbon bow appears. Tucked between the ribbon and the box lies what appears to be a folded note. Gods only know what cursed item sits housed within.
“It’s a mortal tradition, right?” Vaelyn asks, meeting my stare. His eyes flick between Ryc and me. “To bestow gifts of prosperity to newlyweds?”
Silence.
No one answers.
“Ves,” he says, sounding pleading and disappointed. “Take it. Call it an apology for doubting your dream fae existed.”
How easily the lies roll off his tongue.
He never doubted Ryc existed.
He’s used Ryc as much as he’s used me.
“I don’t want it,” I reply, my voice utter ice. “We both know gifts from demons never come without strings.”
“Don’t give me that,” Vaelyn says, quick to counter. “Don’t give me the cold and distant Ves of the hells. We both know you’re no longer her.”
“You want to leave a gift of prosperity?” I ask, bitter. “Then leave the Sovereign Kings alone. Leave me alone.”
Vaelyn heaves a tired sigh as he pulls the box close. “I can’t do that.” He almost sounds convincing in his regret. “You chose mortality. You chose to be like them.” He glances at Rowen, at Fenryn, at Eve. “It’s my duty to collect powerful souls.”
The blaring truth sits between the words he’s spoken.
He’s not going to neglect duty… and he’ll continue to collect powerful souls, mine included.
“Rest assured,” Vaelyn says, the smile returning to his face. “No Sovereign King has taken my offer thus far.”
Thus far.
He sets the box upon the floor, stepping back.
“Regardless, congratulations,” he says in common tongue. “I’m sorry things couldn’t be different.”
In a crimson blaze of hellfire Vaelyn vanishes, leaving a scorched ring upon the floor. Heaving a shuddering breath, my fingers curl into trembling fists. Before my darkened thoughts rush up to consume me, I rush forward, crossing the small distance to the box.
“Ves, is that a good idea?” Eve asks, trying and failing to keep the worry and concern from her voice.
“Not opening it right now,” I reply, pulling the note from beneath the ribbon. “Just reading the note.”
I open it.
And my jaw sets tight.
Ves,
I’m calling in my favor.
Give this to Ylara.
Vae
I hand the note to Eve, turning my attention to the box. She translates it aloud in common tongue.
“Ylara?” Ryc asks with a justified degree of confusion.
“And what favor?” Fenryn follows suit.
He sounds surprisingly less drunk than he had ten minutes ago. I suppose any degree of a brush with death is sobering.
Lifting the box, the cold unwinding curse snakes itself along my skin and up my arm. I turn, facing Ryc and the others as I sigh.
“The days leading up to my escape from the hells were messy… and hurried,” I say, unwilling to meet any of their stares. Instead I stare at the box in my hands as the sinking feeling in my stomach grows. “I took Vaelyn’s offer of help in exchange for a favor he could call upon later.”
I feel the weight of their stares on my skin through the silence.
“You have to understand,” I say, lifting my chin. “My chances of success were low. I took whatever steps necessary to ensure my survival.”
Which meant making deals with the soon-to-be-devil at the time.
“It’s not an official contract,” I add. “But Vaelyn knows I’m a demon of her word.”
With a swift bite of his thumb, Ryc sweeps toward me and presses it against the lid as he tears back the bow. The box opens, the lid parting to reveal a black-bladed dagger and another note tucked beside it.
All of the blood in my veins turns to ice.
“Is that—”
Ryc doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
I nod.
It’s the bloodstone dagger I used to kill Netharis.
The one Ryc gifted me months ago.
He takes the second note, opening it as he turns it to me.
There’s a single line written in Malbolge.
Bury it in her heart, Ves.
?????????????
“None of this makes sense,” I say as I pace the length of Ryc’s study barefoot. “Unless… Ylara’s escaped.”
It’s entirely possible.
The veil stands torn—the one thing the shadow hag said needed to happen before she could walk among the living. Of course she would take advantage. I would too.
Refusing Sabien’s offer was a blessing in disguise.
We would have made a promise of power for naught.
Gods only know how long she’s been missing from the hells. The days following Vaelyn’s ascension would have been chaotic enough as cover… but I’ve no way of knowing when she left.
“This Ylara, your sister, she’s another demon?” Rowen asks as he turns away from the fireplace, swirling a glass of brandy in his hand.
“Yes,” I answer. “The daughter of Indui and Netharis.” I turn to recount my steps across the room, ensuring the balled train in my arms is well out of the way. Rowen watches me with a worried stare. “There are thirteen of us, Rowen. All borne of different gods.”
Darin scoffs. “The possibility of twelve more Death Bringers running rampant in this realm isn’t ideal.”
It certainly isn’t.
Fenryn grins. “Thought you wanted your own demon,” he teases.
Darin shoots him a flat glare.
“I doubt—aside from Ylara—any of my siblings would seek escape,” I interject into their budding bickering.
Ylara would be the only of my siblings to understand and respect mortal life. The others… they would find joy and pleasure in destruction.
“If he doesn’t want demons to leave, why leave the veil torn?” Ryc asks.
I don’t have an answer.
He sits behind his desk, arms folded across his chest. With his jacket off and slung over the back of his chair he works at the buttons of his collar, leaving them undone.
We’re all through with today.
“Maybe he can’t?” Eve offers.
I shake my head. “I’ve witnessed Netharis seal tears with a snap of his fingers. Vaelyn should be capable of the same. He’s choosing not to.”
And I don’t know why.
“There has to be more to this I’m not seeing,” I say with a sigh. “These last few weeks… Vaelyn has proven he’s as much Netharis as Netharis himself. But he’s rash, inexperienced, messy. He lacks the centuries-long patience of our father.”
Ryc’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying we do nothing?”
I slow in my pace. “I’m saying we wait. We’ve not the time to hunt her. Not with everything else. Nor do we need to.”
I’m met with several concerned stares.
“Ylara will find her way to me,” I say, slowing to a stop. “We promised.”
I’ve been placed in an impossible situation with an impossible choice. Deny the promised favor and earn the spiteful ire of a god… or kill my littlest sister.
It’s not a decision I ever want to make.
“Ves…” Lilith’s worried voice trails off.
She sits beside Fenryn on the couch, though more than a respectful distance remains between them. I’m not the only one hiding truths from the council. They’re still not ready to breathe a word of their relationship to any other Sovereign King.
“It’s fine,” I say, brushing off her concern. “I’m fine. This is nothing new for the hells. It’s simply… been some time since I’ve been involved.”
Centuries.
It’s been centuries since I was last actively involved in these games of the hells. Though, Netharis never had me target my siblings. Layer Lords, House Patriarchs, greater demons… they were all fair game. Easy to replace.
But Netharis’ children?
We were untouchable.
Were. Doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. Not under Vaelyn’s rule.
“If this Death Bringer has slipped through the veil, what else do you think she’ll bring with her?” Darin asks, pinning his eyes against me. “A legion of demons? Cursed objects for innocents to discover? Famine, plague, wrath?”
The room turns to me, awaiting my answer.
No.
Nothing so damning. Nothing so dramatic.
Knowing Ylara, she’ll bring at least one thing with her. Something as hungry for knowledge as she and in possession of a pair of bright yellow eyes.
“No,” I say with a small laugh. “You’ve nothing to fear on that account.”
Even if it turns out to be a lie, I’m not going to give further reason for these kings to hunt my sister, allies or otherwise.
“It doesn’t seem like there’s any love lost between the three of you,” Rowen notes before finishing his glass of brandy.
“The relationship between Vaelyn and Ylara has always been… tense,” I reply. “My relationship with Vaelyn is the same. But Ylara and I… we were close. I taught her how to navigate the hells, its court and their games, how to keep herself safe, and how to be an effective Death Bringer.”
“You were her mentor,” Lilith says.
“She was my ward in a way,” I correct.
“It seems nothing has changed with Netharis’ death,” Fenryn says, his tone bitter as he plucks his near empty glass of water from the low table before him.
“Untrue,” Rowen counters. He crosses the room to claim the seat beside Darin. “Countless lives have been freed from contracts. With any luck, they’ll have learned their lesson and serve to warn others.”
In theory an honorable goal.
In practice, it’ll serve to breed more subversive tactics from demons.
Nothing yet everything has changed with Netharis’ demise.
“Should we convene with the human kings?” Darin asks and Rowen huffs a small sigh. “We would be fools to assume the god of death isn’t making them offers too.”
“I’ve corresponded with Emperor Orenias, but he along with a few other countries are reluctant to summit,” Rowen replies with a tight-lipped frown.
Can’t say I know this Emperor Orenias or the country he leads.
Can’t say I care right now either.
Though, their reluctance is to be expected. Rowen is one of the same fae kings who enslaved humans for centuries. The human king may not have experienced such horrors himself, but his ancestors certainly did. And even now, humans are unwelcome within Vis’ borders.
It wouldn’t matter what Rowen had to say, I’d be reluctant to listen too.
“Perhaps calling a summit should be a task best left to the High Emperor and Empress,” Fenryn says, exchanging glances with Ryc.
“A task not in need of completion right now,” Ryc says, rising from his seat. “Right now, I’d like to retire. Today has been long enough.”
On that, I couldn’t agree more.