12 Theodore
Theodore
The curdling scream that rose up from Imogen’s throat hit me at the knees.
They tremored beneath me as I pulled the dagger from my hip and firmed my shaking fingers around its hilt. I ran across the deck. Through sailors and courtiers—toward her.
Imogen’s cry became a gasp, then a trapped whimper, but she remained standing, even as Eftan twisted the blade he’d sunk into her stomach.
She staggered and raised her taloned hands.
I thought she would fall, but she bared her white teeth, then drove her hands violently down, clawing them into Eftan.
Across his cheeks, down his throat, over his chest.
Eftan remained quiet. He didn’t rear back or try to stop her assault. All he did was let go of the knife he’d driven into her.
“Imogen.” Her name frayed in my throat.
Blood began to seep through the sailor’s coat she wore, darkening its front with a bloom of wet.
I wasn’t fast enough. Imogen’s face slackened.
She stumbled back, her spine hitting the ship’s rail.
A crowd rushed forward, and for a moment I couldn’t see her as sailors shouted and Markis and Aleka tried to reach for Eftan.
I jerked one sailor to the side, shoved a courtier away. “Move.”
Somehow, Lachlan had gotten in front of me. His hand met the center of my chest and pushed. “Stay back.”
“Don’t you dare—”
Imogen had pulled herself off the rail and pressed a hand beside the blade in her gut, but her attention was on Eftan. I watched on as horror blanked her features. She shook her head in terrorized disbelief.
I pushed against Lachlan. “Imogen.”
The ship’s movement made her sway. She would fall, and I wouldn’t be there to catch her. With a snarl, I threw my shoulder against Lachlan’s breastplate, forcing him back.
Lachlan righted himself before I could slip past. “Theo, stop.”
Eftan remained still, blood pouring from his face and neck, as Imogen fell to her knees. When she cried out, her voice was a mangled plea. “Lachlan—”
I froze. She’d said his name. Not mine.
“Release your lure, Imogen,” Lachlan commanded as he held me off. He’d taken on the fearsome stillness of a predator before it struck. He reached for his sword.
Imogen shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I can’t.”
I tried again to get to her, refusing to watch her die, but Lachlan pulled back a fist and drove it hard into my stomach.
On a wheeze, I bent in half.
Lachlan’s growl was guttural and violent. “Gods damn it, Imogen. Try harder.”
I straightened in time to watch her brow crumple imploringly. I couldn’t comprehend how she still remained upright, how she still spoke, even as that bloody stain on her stomach spread wider.
“You promised,” she said to Lachlan in a small, heartrending voice.
Suddenly Eftan’s spine straightened. He spun and began walking to the ship’s rail with dragging steps.
His gold-threaded waistcoat was soaked in red, and his eyes were wide and empty.
His bloody lips moved, muttering something I couldn’t make out.
He looked like he was ready to throw himself into the sea, but before he could, Lachlan made it to Imogen’s side.
The sun gleamed off his breastplate as he lifted his sword high. In one sweeping movement he drove the hilt down atop Imogen’s head.
She collapsed to the deck, the gold hilt of the blade in her stomach pointing toward the bright sky. A moment later, Eftan collapsed too.
Everything around me rushed in and blurred—the shouts of the surrounding crew and guards. Aleka’s voice, and Markis’s. I noticed the choppiness of the sea and how it agitated the ship. I heard, but could not understand, Halla’s panicked words.
Lachlan stood above Imogen, breaths racing, sword hanging at his side. This time he didn’t stop me as I came to lift her limp body into my arms.
Aleka appeared at my side, her voice unusually hoarse. “Does she live?” she asked. She shook her head. “And what of the chancellor, Your Majesty? You must see to his care.”
“The queen outranks him. The ship’s healer can see to Eftan.” I didn’t slow as I made for my stateroom and kicked the door wide. The open windows had filled the cabin with damp, salty air. Lachlan raced in with that Godsdamned sword still in his fist.
“Fucking sheathe that.” I laid Imogen down across my bed and shoved up my shirtsleeves. “I could kill you—”
“I was keeping a promise.” His sword remained in his fist, his worried gaze locked on her.
My heart struck like a forge hammer, my anger a flame, but I set my focus and power on Imogen. Inexplicably, Imogen’s pulse was steady, and despite the amount of blood that soaked her clothing, I couldn’t sense any vitality leeching from her.
“What sort of promise?” I’d tried—and failed—to keep the note of suspicion from the question.
Lachlan’s mouth downturned. “She wouldn’t want me to tell you.”
I fought to steady my hands as I reached for the blade in her stomach.
At the edge of the bed, Lachlan raised his sword higher, remorse carving harsh lines into his face.
Under any other circumstances I’d berate him for his treason, but despite how he’d hurt her, I sensed that the bastard actually cared.
Halla bustled into the stateroom, Markis at her side. “Has she died?” she asked, bracing herself against the table, a pale hand at her throat.
“No,” Lachlan said, low and disgruntled. “Has Eftan?”
Markis shook his head. “He lives… I suppose. The ship’s healer is skilled, but Eftan is looking rather grim.” He smoothed his beard. “Your Majesty, perhaps you could—”
“When I’m done.” I stood there, hands hovering above Imogen’s pierced stomach. Her chest rose and fell with slow, shallow breaths, as if she was merely asleep. Her thick hair was knotted and strewn over the bedding, specks of sand clinging to the dark strands.
She should be dead. Or at the very least, dying. Something within her body felt wrong. Whatever it was trembled around my probing power.
Halla stood at the foot of my bed, framed between the partially open curtains. She still wore my sleep shirt, pale hair gathered over one shoulder, and her incisive gaze sliced between Imogen and me.
“I never truly understood what mother meant when she warned me against the corruptibility of love.” The corner of Halla’s lip twisted wryly.
“What a tremendous example you have set for me, Your Majesty.” She stared at Imogen with a look I could not name, but it was caustic. “She will be your undoing.”
Yes, I know, I thought, she’s undone me already. I didn’t lift my gaze from Imogen. “Leave now.”
Halla left my cabin, Markis at her side, without another word.
“You need to be careful, Theo,” Lachlan said when the door shut. “Showing Imogen too much favor—it will make things far worse.”
He was undoubtably correct, but what I felt for her was as strong and consuming as instinct.
No force—divine, magical, or otherwise—could stop me.
She still looked like she was in the midst of a peaceful rest, thick lashes lightly fluttering against her cheekbones.
The blade in her gut rose and fell with her gentle breaths.
A portentous unease struck me at the thought of removing it.
I wrapped my fist around its hilt regardless and paused. “Have you…” I started to say, avoiding Lachlan’s eye. “Are you… are the two of you…”
Lachlan gave an amused snort. At my glare, he raised his free hand in apology. “Forgive me. Imogen’s very pretty,” he said placatingly. “And yes, I’m a bit of a sensualist, but my only tie to her is, and always will be, that we both love Agatha.” Dire honesty sat in his gaze. “Deeply.”
I nodded curtly, letting him know I believed him, but that twist of jealousy remained in my chest. The privilege of being near her, of looking after her, was still his.
My hand shook as I set it against Imogen’s abdomen, but before pulling the blade, I studied the curves and planes of her lovely face.
Since I’d first laid eyes on her, I had thought her otherworldly. An enthralling flush had colored her cheeks. Her scintillant eyes had been so alive. She was a raucous, effervescent song, and her passion and fortitude had beat like a drum through my chest.
Now she seemed empty. Her face looked drawn, cheeks bloodless, full lips dry and tight.
My desperation to see her as she had been, whole and vibrant, gave me the courage to yank the dagger from her gut. She moaned quietly when it finally gave. I waited for the gush of blood, but none came forth.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I started quickly on the buttons beneath her chin, slowing only when I saw a flash of gold. The chain I’d gifted her.
It was warm from her skin when I hooked my finger around it and pulled it free.
Her two rings hung from it. The gray stone her fiancé had given her and the large, amber-hued jewel from me.
Seeing them side by side stoked my irrational jealousy further, making me grit my teeth as I started again on her buttons.
The black binding she wore over her breasts was spangled with more grains of sand and salt stains. Her golden-brown skin looked smooth and soft, but when I reached her solar plexus, it began to change. An angry red edge turned quickly into a flame-ravaged black.
“No.” I ripped the last two buttons from their stitches, leaving her whole upper half exposed.
“Fucking Gods,” I whispered. Ribbed, yellow-green kelp, about the size of my palm, looked like it had been fused by fire to her skin.
Eftan’s blade had sunk right into the middle of it, and what had finally begun to slowly ooze from the puncture was not just blood but thick, dark sand. I set my hand over it.
“What happened?” Adrenaline charged through me. My heart kicked.
“Nemea stabbed her,” Lachlan said. “She performed a spell to keep herself alive.”
A tinny ringing had started in my ears. “Go,” I said, not wanting him to see her body as I undid the clasps of her high trousers, pulling them wide and slightly down, over the curve of her hips. The kelp and charred skin dipped below their band.