Chapter 5
DEADSTOCK
SAERIS
THE SACK HIT the floor with a thump.
The stench that wafted out of it made me want to gag.
“Smells like your old apartment above the Mirage,” Carrion offered in a chipper tone. He carved off a piece of the apple he was holding and ate it straight from the edge of his knife.
I scowled at him, tempted to take the bait. He wanted me to ask him how the hell he thought he knew what the attic space I’d shared with my younger brother above the Mirage had smelled like, but there wasn’t time to engage in petty sniping.
Kingfisher and Lorreth had returned, and they’d brought a bag of severed heads with them.
It went without saying that the bag of heads should have been my primary focus, but apparently I was a terrible person, because the only thing I cared about was him.
Fisher. My mate was here, and it felt like I could finally breathe again.
He looked as handsome as ever, with his dark hair swept back from his face in waves.
The room was full of electricity whenever he was in it.
I was drawn to him like a magnet. Like my body was trying to find its way home into his arms. After the incident with Ereth, as we were calling it, the coronation celebrations had been canceled, and Fisher had left to check in with Ren and the others.
Taladaius had advised that Fisher spend at least a few days away from Ammontraíeth so that the high bloods could cool down a little, but he hadn’t seemed at all surprised when my mate had shown up here with Lorreth and the bag as soon as dusk fell.
Fisher sent a withering look in Carrion’s direction. “Greetings, Swift. Do you think we might be able to get a little privacy?”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“Yes.”
Carrion pointed his knife at Lorreth. “Does he get to stay?”
“Don’t point that at me, boy,” the warrior with the dark war braids sighed. “Not if you want to keep it. I’m a collector of pretty daggers.”
“Yes, he’s staying,” Fisher said flatly.
Sheepishly, Carrion lowered the dagger. “Then it stands to reason that I should, too. I’m the heir to the Yvelian throne. If there have been developments that affect Yvelia, I should absolutely be present while they’re discussed.”
“Do you have any experience with warfare?” Fisher demanded.
“No, not really.”
“Any experience whatsoever with necromancy?”
“No.”
“The walking dead?”
“No.”
“Blood curses?”
“What do you think?”
“Then you’re no use to us. Leave.”
Taladaius entered through the heavy double doors then.
Unlike every other member of the Blood Court, he did not kneel before me.
I had expressly forbidden him from doing so, though he had suggested that might not be a good idea.
He strode across the council chamber with intent, the heels of his boots ringing out against the dove-gray marble.
His expression was controlled. Mild, even.
But the sadness radiating from him through the connection we shared was stronger than ever today.
It left the taste of bitterness and regret on my tongue.
“After the show you put on yesterday, Fisher,” he said, “he’ll probably be kidnapped and sold into slavery if he leaves this room alone. ”
“And we don’t want that to happen?” Fisher said, as if he were getting his facts straight.
“Fisher.” This little back-and-forth feud they had going on was becoming borderline infuriating.
My mate just looked at me, innocent as you please.
“He’s said repeatedly that he has no interest in fighting for his seat at the Winter Palace.
And he admitted it himself just now. No tactical training.
No knowledge of this.” He nudged the bag on the floor with the toe of his boot. “So what good is he?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re the one who brought him here. Now you have to tolerate his presence.”
“Maybe it’s time I took him back to Yvelia?” he countered hopefully.
My maker huffed. Taladaius was dressed in a plain white shirt with loose sleeves, black pants, and black boots. With his silver hair and his pale skin, he was a study in contrasts. He ran a ringed hand through his hair as he dropped down and plucked the sack open, inspecting its contents.
My stomach turned the moment I saw what was inside.
I’d witnessed plenty of rot in Zilvaren.
When you lived in a quarantined sector where people died of starvation or thirst on a daily basis, the dead were not that shocking a sight.
But when a head was all that was left of them, and their cheeks were blackened to a crisp and sloughing from the bone .
. . and when they were blinking at you with clouded red eyes, that was a slightly different story.
The smell was so much worse now that the bag was open.
Taladaius rocked back on his heels, a look of contemplation on his face.
Lorreth spoke before he did. “Tell us this wasn’t you.”
My maker’s head shot up. He fixed Lorreth with a stunned stare. “Me? I—” He recovered. “No. It wasn’t me. I don’t have thralls or slaves. And this . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “This is beyond me. Decapitated like this, they shouldn’t still be animated.”
“Oh, believe me. We know that.” Lorreth gave a hard laugh. “So how do we kill them?”
Taladaius took a closer look, peering into the bag of heads. He wrinkled his nose. “Honestly, I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before.”
You’re coming back to Cahlish with me, Little Osha.
Was I ever going to get used to the sound of Fisher speaking into my mind? His voice was so close, as if he were whispering right into my ear. My skin broke out in goose bumps in an instant.
Oh? I thought I needed to stay here? I answered.
A tiny frown formed on Kingfisher’s handsome face. No one will know you’re gone. We’ll have Tal tell them all you’re engaging in blood-fueled orgies all day. That’ll convince them to think you’re making an effort to fit in.
I was aware that Lorreth was explaining something to Taladaius about the feeders absorbing Ren’s power. And Kingfisher’s.
I looked to him, startled, but before I could say anything he quieted my worry. It’s okay. We both felt off, but we slept a while and Te Léna worked on us. We’re fine now.
This was hard, loving him. I’d barely slept a wink all day, worrying about him.
Some deep, unsettled feeling inside me had told me something was wrong in Irrín.
I hadn’t pursued romantic connections back in Zilvaren, though I’d had plenty of opportunities to do so.
I’d had responsibilities. Keeping Hayden out of trouble had been a full-time job, for one, and then there had always been the problem of keeping food on the table and water in our bellies.
Developing a relationship with somebody would have been a fool’s errand that would have distracted me from the business of survival.
But this was nothing like that. This . .
. was two stars colliding. The end of everything and the beginning at the same time.
The idea of forming a relationship with someone back in Zilvaren was trivial in comparison to this.
Fisher was everything. I was attuned to him.
I could feel the shifts in his moods like the ebb and flow of the tides that I had read so much about, and worrying about him while we were apart was enough to drive me mad.
I had to admit, the idea of leaving with him and returning to Cahlish rather than Irrín, where we would be able to sleep in a warm bed and have some privacy, was appealing. It would halt my thoughts from racing, even if it was only for a night.
Okay. I’ll take your word for it. And yes, I’ll come back there with you tonight. But on one condition.
Kingfisher arched an eyebrow at me. Oh? Making demands, are we, Your Highness?
He was teasing me when he called me that, but I didn’t like it.
I didn’t want there to be any greater a divide between us, and the fact that I was now half vampire was already causing issues.
I could stand to be out on the terrace in the early morning daylight, but not for long.
Once the sun was high overhead, I found myself exhausted to the point of nausea, and I couldn’t bear the direct light on my skin.
I could still eat, but my appetite for food was much decreased, which I hated.
And I could deny it as much as I liked: I didn’t have to feed to survive the way Taladaius and the other members of the Sanasrothian Court did .
. . but I wanted to. Since I’d awoken, a vague curiosity had slumbered within me, and now that I had fed from Fisher, it seemed to have stirred and was stretching its legs.
Even now, my throat felt scratchy, as if I was coming down with a cold.
Technically, I represented everything Fisher detested .
. . and I was a queen now, too? My mate’s disdain for royalty was understandable.
My home was ruled by a tyrant queen. Zilvaren suffered every day because of Madra, but Fisher had also experienced pain at her hands.
Madra had closed the quicksilver portals and taken his father from him.
Not to mention that the Yvelian throne had been stolen by King Belikon, who had tortured Fisher his entire life, and then Malcolm, ruler of the Blood Court, had come along and thrown him into the maze.
It made perfect sense that there would be a sharp edge to his tone when he said the words Your Highness.
But hearing that edge in his voice when he spoke to me? That hurt more than I cared to admit.
I did my best to cast the niggling sensation in my stomach aside. I suppose I am, I told him. Don’t worry. I’m not asking anything too unreasonable. At least, I hope I’m not.
Go on.