Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
C hirping birdsong filled Mireille’s ears as footsteps crunched through the pine needles behind her. Hazy mid-afternoon sunlight banded through the trees, illuminating the cabin’s rotted door and broken windows.
“It looks smaller than I expected.” Ronin's hand skated across her lower back.
Mireille blew out a long breath. “It was just me and my mother. We didn’t need much.”
Her fingers tensed around the file folder, a farewell gift from Sonya.
Her father’s history.
After they’d left the Otto estate last week, they’d returned to Kheimos for a few days to tie up loose ends before making their final escape.
Ronin had stayed mostly hidden within his apartment, far too recognizable a presence to risk walking through the streets and word getting back to Skanisse that he’d returned to the city.
Mireille had used the last of her veiling potion to perform two tasks.
First, she’d visited Mattias Bisere, who’d been heart-broken, though not shocked, to learn his sister had met True Death at the estate. Though the blow was softened when Mireille had gifted Mattias the anastasium stone containing Larissa’s soul.
Then, she’d visited Sonya at her home, not willing to risk a trip back to IA headquarters, even under the guise of the potion. She’d confessed everything that had happened, begged Sonya not to breath a word of it to Skanisse, then given the Windrider her father’s name. Asked if Sonya would go to the archives, perform one last favor for her.
Mireille had waited at Sonya’s for several nerve-wracking hours, half expecting the High Councilor himself to arrive with a cadre of agents to arrest her. She’d nearly collapsed with relief when Sonya finally returned and handed her the folder. Sonya had pulled her into a fierce hug, assured Mireille her secrets were safe, then told her to take care of herself.
That had been a week ago, and Mireille hadn’t yet found the courage to read it. Wanted to do it here in the cabin where she’d first heard her father’s voice. It felt like closure, of a kind.
Instead, the past week had been filled with exactly what she and Ronin had promised each other among the ruins of the Cathedral of Bones—rest and relaxation.
They’d journeyed out of Kheimos, traveling mostly in their wolf forms through the dense forests and snow-capped mountains, careful to keep out of sight.
Their blissful week had been full of barely anything other than long conversations, longer runs, hunting for game and sleeping beneath the stars.
Well, to be fair, there wasn’t much sleeping.
It was a wild, feral existence that Mireille was sure she could get quite used to. And Ronin hadn’t had a drop of Delirium the entire time. She was incredibly proud of him.
Mireille thought often of the young girl she’d seen in the Halfway with her father. He’d said she was centuries away from existence and that, when the time was right, Mireille would know how to find her.
In the meantime, Mireille figured her life was her own to live until she was called upon to fulfill that role. Whatever it may be.
And right now, she wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life in the woods with the wonderful male standing beside her.
“Well,” Ronin said, “shall we?”
Sweet Amatu, he is delicious , Mireille’s wolf purred.
She pulled back her shoulders, gathering her courage. “Yes” was all she said before Ronin led her up the rickety steps and through the cabin door, which hung precariously on rusted hinges.
Her breath caught, and an ache pierced her chest at the sight of the small table before the crumbling hearth. Remembering the meal she’d been served in that vision during the seance.
She shook the thoughts away, then pulled out a chair covered in layers of dust and settled down gingerly. Ronin didn’t bother with the other chair—no way would it hold his weight. Instead, he leaned Mireille’s sword—the replica of her father’s—against the wall, then came up behind her, a pillar of warmth and strength at her back.
“You don’t have to do this,” he offered, his voice low and soft as he rubbed her shoulders. “Maybe it’s better to not know what happened to him. You said he seemed content in the Halfway. Perhaps it would be easier to remember him that way.”
Mireille dashed away a tear. “No,” she whispered. Then more firmly, “No. He deserves it. For me to honor his life after all those years of not knowing him.”
Ronin brushed her hair aside, then kissed her neck. “Do you want me to stay? Or would you prefer to read it alone?”
Mireille thought for a moment. She was grateful that Ronin was here to support her. But perhaps this moment was something she should experience on her own. Something sacred between her and Gareth.
She clasped Ronin’s hand, brushing her lips across his tattooed knuckles.
Inom Than . Become Death.
She thought he should change it to Nikoch Than . Defy Death.
She chuckled to herself. Too many letters.
“Wait for me outside.”
Ronin nodded, then exited the cabin, ducking and angling his broad shoulders through the narrow door. He attempted to shut it, despite the useless hinges. Her chest tightened at the gesture. A radiant, achy longing she’d never felt before.
Love, perhaps? Whatever this thing was between them, it was all-consuming. Overwhelming in the best way.
What was it, if not love? Or at least the fragile seedlings of it.
With that thought bolstering her courage, she took a deep breath and opened the folder.
Mireille didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the chipped blue paint on the wall.
It couldn’t be true.
She pleaded with whatever Gods actually existed for it not to be true.
Her knees buckled as she attempted to rise from the chair, instead crashing to the dusty floor. She rolled into a fetal position, clutching her stomach.
And her chest. Which had been cleaved in half.
A torrent of tears erupted, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle them. Didn’t want him to hear. Didn’t want him to know.
Saliva and snot mingled on her palm as pain and anger and grief washed over her in relentless, violent waves. As if every emotion she’d kept caged for the past three centuries had finally broken free.
She’d thought she’d already freed them over these weeks with Ronin. Then realized she’d only freed the pleasant ones. The light ones.
The dark emotions were so much more powerful.
So much more tempting .
Her eyes darted to her sword, glinting with menace in the window’s soft light.
Avenge him , it taunted.
This had all been a mistake. A distracting, foolish mistake.
Familiar anger consumed her, chasing away all those other useless feelings. They’d never lasted longer than the pain anyway.
How could she have been so naive to think this time would be different?
She rose from the floor, swiping her nose with the back of her wrist, and stalked to the sword.
Then wrapped her hand around the hilt.
Ronin’s first sign that something was wrong was how long it was taking Mireille to read the contents of that folder.
He’d been standing outside the small cabin for a little over an hour, leaned back against a sticky pine tree, the resinous scent of sap stinging his nostrils.
Since his uncaging, his senses, even in his humanoid form, had heightened. Well, it was either the uncaging or his reduced Delirium consumption. It wasn’t that he didn’t need the elixir anymore. That craving, that addiction , would never go away. It was a part of him, just as much as his wolf and his now non-magical tattoos.
But for the first time in his life, Ronin had a reason to want to curb it. To want to be present for every moment he spent with Mireille.
The past week had been utter fucking bliss .
Deep down, he knew her feelings weren’t as strong as his. Not yet. The minute he’d seen her burst through that snake in her flaming wolf form, he’d wanted to get on his knees and proclaim his undying love.
But she was still skittish, still adjusting to a non-solitary existence, and he didn’t want to scare her away. So he’d be patient. Would wait to confess how he felt until a time when she’d be ready to hear it.
He’d wait forever, if necessary.
But right now, he was worried about her for a very different reason. Surely it wouldn’t have taken someone as smart as Mireille this long to read that file.
Is she okay in there? he asked his wolf.
Another side-effect of his uncaging—their wolves could sense each other. They couldn’t communicate in words, not like how Ronin and his own wolf conversed in his mind, but they had a general awareness of each other’s presence. Could sense feelings, locations even. And according to his wolf’s very colorful commentary every time he and Mireille had fucked this past week—a delightfully frequent occurrence—their wolves could feel it, too. The beast had been insatiable ever since.
His wolf let out a small whimper and Ronin tensed. She is…angry .
About what?
I cannot ? —
The door to the cabin banged open, then crashed off its hinges onto the porch.
Mireille stood in the doorway, her silver eyes ablaze with fury, the file folder in one hand and her sword in the other, her chest heaving.
“Mireille, what—” Ronin started, then stopped as she raised the sword and stalked down the steps, the wood groaning beneath her furious footfalls.
She paused at the bottom, her wet cheeks glistening in the approaching twilight. She tossed the file folder at his feet, and sheaves of paper spilled onto the dry pine needles.
“Read it,” she snarled.
Ronin’s chest hollowed out. He raised his palms, his wolf growling and scratching at his chest. Acknowledging a new enemy. “Why don’t we just?—”
“Fucking read it, Butcher.” A hoarse cry edged in anger and tears.
Ronin’s heart tripled its beat; she hadn’t called him Butcher like that since the day they’d met at IA headquarters.
Mireille gripped the sword, flames licking her fingertips, but didn’t move as Ronin bent down to gather the folder and papers.
He shot her a pleading glance that she met with that all-too-familiar imperviousness. Though something was different about it. It used to be icy, cold.
Now, it was the burning fire of a world-ending rage.
He opened the folder, his muscles twitching from the effort to contain his wolf, who slammed against his chest, desperate to come out and fight.
He shuffled through the papers, his thumb catching on a document that was thicker than the rest.
A death certificate.
His heart stopped beating entirely as he read the scrolling calligraphy, written in both Aramaelish and the common tongue.
Cause of death: Mauled on the battlefield at Aethalia. Casualty of the white wolf .
The folder fell to the ground in a cascading swish, and he raised his eyes to Mireille’s.
In them, he found nothing but the deepest hatred. No fear, though. Pride swelled his chest even as it shattered to pieces.
“You. Fucking. KILLED HIM! ” she roared, the sword in her hands shaking violently as her fire swelled, crawling up the blade in a crackling blaze.
Ronin backed up a step, pleading. “I didn’t know,” he choked out. “I didn’t know, Mireille.” His wolf howled, raking claws against his bones, and he could barely hold back the shift. If he let his beast out now, he honestly didn’t know what the creature would do to her.
“You slaughtered him before I even had a chance to—” Her voice broke, and Ronin couldn’t help echoing her tears.
“Please. I didn’t...” An image speared through his panic-fogged mind—a young girl with copper hair, holding the hand of a distinguished-looking soldier with blue-gray eyes. Like a tiny beacon in that sea of human sameness he’d encountered during his vision in the Halfway.
How in Ethyrios hadn’t he known it was her?
“You’re a fucking monster ,” she whispered. The pain and regret lacing her words broke him.
He crashed to his knees, paralyzed by guilt. “What can I do? How can I fix this?”
“You can’t.” She towered over him. “Bring out the beast so that I can have my vengeance.”
She angled the flaming steel so close to his face that sweat pebbled across his forehead, and he squinted his eyes against the excruciating heat.
It was the last straw for his wolf. The creature took over Ronin’s body, the shift so swift and violent that he vomited, bile bursting across his tongue as he bared his fangs.
Don’t hurt her , Ronin begged, but he was no longer in control. All he could do was watch helplessly through his wolf’s eyes as he crouched back onto his hind legs and lunged for Mireille.
She pivoted away with that dancer’s grace, and Ronin crashed through the porch, the stairs crumbling to shards beneath him.
Mireille regained her footing and brandished her sword as a crazed smile tore across her face.
Ronin tried to memorize the sight. Even in her anger, in her hatred, she was glorious.
It was the last thought in Ronin’s mind as his wolf stood, shook off the wooden shards, and rushed for her.
Then a blinding, fiery pain tore through Ronin’s left eye.
And his world evaporated in a swirl of crimson.