Chapter 45 #2
And then he’d seized the opportunity again to visit her during combat training—while her friends were fighting for their lives.
One smell of blood and sweat and fear and he’d forgotten to channel Kiel, because the battlefield was where he thrived.
And so, when he’d seen her in battle, he’d forgotten to channel his brother and he’d been even more reckless, knocking her friend unconscious, wrestling her to the ground—he’d wanted to show her what would happen if she tried to fight real, true demons; she wouldn’t last a minute.
It would be safer with him, safer in the Veiled Realm while she trained with true masters, learned to wield her powers, and then she wouldn’t need protection, she would be the most powerful necromancer in all the realms—because she would be the only necromancer in all the realms.
The catacombs had been a short, impromptu visit, one he hadn’t planned on making, but he’d needed to see her again—something he didn’t want to admit to anyone, not even himself.
And then, she’d come and seen him the night before her trial. He’d been shocked, unprepared … and he’d done no convincing, she’d been just as stubborn, just as determined not to believe him, when she’d left the temple.
Now, it had been two days, since the trial, and he’d felt an ache of sorrow, of rage … but he’d forced himself to give her space. To let her deal with whatever had happened in the trials. But tonight … Tonight, he was prepared. Tonight, he would convince her to return with him.
He had to.
He was running out of time—she was running out of time.
Join their cause, or he would be forced to end her himself.
They were risking too much as it was, letting her remain with the Zenaidans …
but the prophecy made it clear, she had to join them willingly; she could not be coerced or forced. And therein lay the predicament.
She’d been in Zenaida for a month and a half—he wasn’t sure how she’d managed to keep the truth from the fae for this long; frankly, it could only be a divine miracle.
The fae gods weren’t ready to put their subjects out of the misery of winter just yet, and so they must be helping her keep her powers a secret.
This time would be different. He would do what his ancestors had failed to. He would be the one who finally brought her home. He would be the one to teach her to wield her power, lead them to victory.
“They’re here.”
His heart skipped a beat, his head whipping toward the door. “Where?”
Zhaire grimaced. His pulse was steady as Mount Lakina when on a battlefield faced with legions of Veridian fae, and yet, the thought of seeing her made his heart flip like an adolescent’s.
“In Green Barrow, I mean. She wants to find a bookshop.”
Zhaire snorted. In this shithole town?
Rook laughed, seemingly reading his mind. “I know, but she doesn’t seem to be well traveled. When she comes up empty, she’ll stumble in here.”
He wasn’t reading his mind, of course. Rook had a special talent; he could sense emotions to such a degree—even across distances—that he could read minds as long as their thoughts were tied to their current emotions.
But Rook knew better than to read Zhaire like that; he’d just known Zhaire long enough that he’d surmised the exact path his thoughts took.
Zhaire would have to teach Audra how to put up a shield. Nobody should willingly allow Rook free rein to comb through their mind; the male had been born without common decency.
The Prince of Darkness took a swig of the cider, swallowing it down alongside a suppressed gag. Atrocious. If he weren’t of the Aithne line, he’d curse whoever bottled this cider and convinced this tavern to serve it. This might actually be worse than the beer.
“What if she sees through our disguises?” he wondered aloud.
He’d shown his true self to her before, and she’d balked.
He was used to the fae’s reaction being exactly what had flashed on her face—disgust, fear, mistrust—but he’d hoped her reaction to him might be different.
She wasn’t fae after all, not truly. Not in the ways that counted.
The fae despised humans as well as demonkind; he’d hoped she might feel a kinship with him.
He’d been naive to underestimate how potent the fae’s indoctrination was.
They’d had cycles, after all, of perfecting it.
And this project of theirs, this Holyvere Academy, where they forced one hundred fifty potential Heirs into a castle to live and breathe their ideology—well, they had thought of everything.
Only a few weeks out of the human realm, and she already despised demons as intensely as any fae born and bred in the heart of Zenaida.
The days ticked by, without another opportunity for him to convince her to join their cause—and his father had already sent word that he wasn’t happy with his progress, that the lives of the Horde were on the line.
So, when Rook had come to him, out of breath, bursting into his quarters at top speed, Zhaire had been terrified at first. He’d never seen his friend move so fast, and they’d trained together since they were kids. Rook was big and incredibly strong, but his stamina was shit.
So, seeing him run so fast … He’d thought …
gods. Zhaire’s mind had gone to the worst possible outcome: she’d been discovered, the fae had skipped the parade around the Veridian Realm, she’d already been used for the ritual, and somehow, that bond between them hadn’t warned him, alerted him …
or maybe it had. Maybe that was that distant fear he’d felt two days before—intense levels of it, and yet he couldn’t see her, couldn’t even place where she was.
And then, she’d returned to the academy, the fear followed by intense sorrow, grieving.
He’d wanted to check on her but not directly.
Instead, he’d had to snoop on other students, learn about the trials.
He’d thought her relatively safe then, but—he swallowed; if she hadn’t been …
if he had been led astray somehow, his failure had doomed his people to another five hundred years of hell.
Zhaire had felt sick in those few moments it took Rook to catch his breath enough to reveal why he’d actually run up the three flights of stairs and across the entirety of the west wing to reach him.
Zhaire had never flitted through emotions so fast in his entire life.
He’d felt a wave of nausea initially. Followed by pity for the human woman who’d not been born knowing of prophecies let alone how to bear the weight of them—she’d never stood a chance.
And then came knee-quaking terror of what his father would say, would do, now that Zhaire’d failed, and then …
just crushing hopelessness, sorrow for his people.
And then Rook had choked out through wheezes, hunched over, his hands clasping his knees for dear life. “I saw her in a vision. She’s leaving campus. She’ll be at the Withered Hog tonight.”
Zhaire had been all at once overwhelmed with relief that he still had a chance …
his people still had a chance, but more so than anything, he’d felt relief that she was safe.
As safe as one could be within the Zenaidans’ clutches.
And then, he’d asked, “What in the Night Goddess’s sleeping cap is the Withered Hog? ”