Undead Gods

Chapter 22

Elysia had almost reached the sea. Feet planted on cobblestones made dark with mist, her silhouette stood stark against the warm flame of the streetlamp beside her, sea wind blowing her hair back like thin tendrils of night. Fingers cold and curled beneath her cloak, she inhaled the damp salty air with its notes of dirt and fish.

She was putting off the inevitable.

There was only one way she was going to find Rollie’s clandestine group of the cursed in time, but she was loath to do it. Her body stood stiff and rigid in its bid for self protection. Her magic was a liability and she knew it. She’d be lying if she said she never enjoyed the loss of control—the feeling of the magic taking over, heady and intoxicating. But tonight wasn’t the night for that. She needed her wits about her if she was going to be successful. She was well aware her magic did not seem to have any regard for her wellbeing or her goals—only the secrets that it sought. And a secret like this, an entire group of illegal magic wielders meeting in the dead of night, was bound to pull her under.

There were some secrets that were simple. Short and sweet to the ear. Ringing out, then fading fast like the opening chord to your favorite song. So easy to catch and let go. Harmless, really. And then there were secrets that were sticky like tree sap, refusing to leave your skin no matter how much you tried to wash them away.

It was too easy for her to become caught in the magic of all that wished to be known. Secrets, much like humans, simply wanted to be heard. For someone to listen, the presence of another soul to act as a light and shelter for their ragged edges.

But it was dangerous. There was always the risk of falling into a trance, the magic overruling her sense of self.

She was on the sand now, staring out at the sea. Slippers soaked through, she set off in the direction of the water beneath the docks, ignoring her painfully numb toes. Particles of sand stuck to the tops of her feet, kicking up and hitting her calves with each step.

Eyes glued to the dirty white foam of crashing waves, she gathered her resolve. If she fell into a trance, then every single thing she had done to gain entry to this society of magic wielders would be for naught. Her shoulders rose, tensing at the thought. She needed to be clear. Clear and ready to extract the information she needed from these people. Easier said than done.

A sharp wind stung her cheeks, and she clenched her fists. But she wouldn’t learn anything at all if she never found them. Elysia looked up at the dark, nearly starless sky. For a moment, she felt loamy earth under her feet instead of sand and saw a haze of red cross over the moon. The flash of her recurring dream snapped her resistance, driving her out into the icy sea.

That haunting nightmare had started all of this. Icy water slapped against her ankles in harsh agreement. If only my magic hadn’t changed. Elysia extinguished the thought before it could fully form. Because her magic had changed. And that wretched nightmare of a dream had led her to here, this moment, searching for a sliver of hope beneath the sea.

Grim determination settled her breath, bringing her focus inward. Unruly magic or not, she was going to find those people, and with them, answers. Her magic responded, eager to drown her in its rush. Heart rapid, she strained against the potent sensation, forcing herself to sift through the torrent of whispers and tugs this way and that.

Body swaying, her feet stumbled, water crashing over ankles and spraying against her. The sea’s chill did nothing to deter her, though. Her mind’s eye was locked onto the mass of dark, vibrating threads all converging in one death-riddled web. An undercurrent of fear coated the strands. Matte and dry, they looked as if they might crumble.

Distantly, she realized the life of their secrets looked to be at its end. Or maybe this was what happened when you lived each day in bone-deep fear of your own self. You dried up—frail and ready to shatter at any little thing.

Water punched into her gut, knocking her off her feet. The sound of rushing water filled her ears, and then it was pouring over her head into her mouth and lungs, bringing her down beneath its weight as if it were an anchor. Elysia’s feet hit the seafloor, instinct powering her up and out of the water. Soaked, but no longer chained to her magic, she coughed, salt water burning her eyes and nose and throat.

Her frustration was instant. Forget treason or execution, she was going to die alone in the sea because she couldn’t control her stupid fucking magic. She would haunt Rollie in this life and the next if she died out here trying to find his gods-awful friends.

Nails pressed into her skin, she plunged deeper into the water. The docks towered over her, and the water dipped and lapped against her waist now. She stared into the depths of soot-addled water, knowing her eyes couldn’t help her here. The magic beckoned, though, enticing her farther and farther from the shores into the water’s hold.

The fingertips of the wind were pure ice, dragging across her wet skin. Gooseflesh erupted with a shiver. Shoulders hunched, she looked back at the shoreline. For a moment, she swore she saw a shadow—someone standing at the water’s edge, but then it was gone. A trick of the dark and her fear.

There was supposed to be a tunnel. Or a door. Something to take her where she needed to go. But all that awaited her out here was hypothermia. Slapping her hands down against the water’s surface, she loosed a growl in the back of her throat. They were here . She knew it–her magic didn’t lie. She had seen the mess of their secrets. She spun in a circle, ready to scream at the water and sky to tell her what to do.

Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it, I’ll do anything.

The thought she didn’t allow herself to think was this: Because I’m not ready to die . Not here in the water. Not with a rope around her neck. And not with a blade against her skin.

The feeling of the wordless thought was enough, her magic taking it as an invitation and spinning the wheel of her fate soundly. Tick, tick, tick. The wheel spun, pointing to where it had always intended her to go.

And then her body lurched. The magic, no longer willing to be ignored, took hold of her with both hands, pulling her under with a scream. One hand flailed above the water, and then she was gone. Crashing hard to the bottom of the sea, mouth still agape, she choked. Water gurgled, a stream of tiny bubbles rising surfaceward.

And then her knees banged hard, a plume of blood drifting out and away into the dark. Eyes open, her hands tore frantically at the sea floor. It wasn’t sand or rocks that had cracked against her knees. Something was there. Her nails struck gold beneath the sand, literal gold. Fresh energy fueled her now. Because attached to sea-worn wooden boards was a golden slot, gleaming as if it didn’t know it was beneath the sea. The trapdoor looked ancient, seamlessly melded with the sand and mossy algae-covered rocks around it.

Lungs burning, Elysia fumbled for her coin. The clink was muted, barely making a sound against the muffling of the water. Sight unfocused and eyes stinging, she clung to consciousness. And then all at once, the trapdoor fell inward, revealing a dark descent of stairs beneath the sea floor.

Water did not flow or rush in as nature had designed. There was simply a gaping hole, ready to swallow her whole. Elysia dove headfirst onto cold concrete stairs, not caring how she banged her limbs. Spluttering, she raised her head, staring in wonder as the sea raged on, but never entered this secret space. The trapdoor lifted slowly, unhurried until it sealed, leaving her entirely in the dark.

She lay there, chest heaving, lungs and eyes still on fire. Her body continued to shiver uncontrollably, teeth clacking against each other. Fingers like lead, she fumbled to rip off her sodden cloak. It hit the ground with a heavy splat behind her, and she jolted forward, unsteady on her legs. Her hands clumsily steadied herself against the wall.

The stairs ended at a door. Circular with two black iron lines intersecting its center like a crossroads, there were small symbols all around the outer edge of the door. Scales and swords. Hands in strange postures. Skulls and chalices. Fingers still shaking, she reached out, the iron symbols textured against her skin. Water ran in a steady stream off her clothes and body, leaving a growing puddle beneath her feet.

I should go in. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

But a new fear held her in place. She’d never seen magic like that trapdoor. Magic that could rival the strength of something as untameable as the sea. She could hear voices through the door now, becoming more and more clear. Could they produce magic like that ?

Her hand strayed to the door handle, ears honed in on the sounds she could make out. Laughter. Voices warm and unrestrained. She gripped the handle—she’d dreamed of this.

With a surge of anxious anticipation, she twisted the handle, letting the door swing open.

An entire roomful of eyes swiveled to her. Soaked to the bone and with a necklace of bruises from both Scarzan and her father, she met their eyes. Not a single one of them was so much as damp. Clearly, they’d had a method of arrival other than the thrashing sea dumping them on the trapdoor like a sack of wet trash.

Her mask slid into place with a swallow. She could handle this. She’d been in far tenser situations with far scarier people. By the gods, she’d killed a man tonight. Created a distraction worthy of the finest heist. And she'd unraveled the clue she imagined they had not believed she could solve.

Elysia lifted her chin and met their eyes only for Rollie to amble forward and break the silence along with her poise in one blow.

His face was horror-struck. “What happened to you? You look like you had the shit beat out of you. Bruises on your neck and scratches on your face.” Honest and blunt as ever, Rollie’s brow creased in genuine concern, his hands clasping and unclasping nervously.

Her cheeks heated, hand automatically reaching up to cover the bruises. But it was no use. She let her hand drop, foregoing her attempt and opting for her own shade of bluntness.

Face still warm, she looked at only Rollie, ignoring the rest of the stares. Her voice came out flat and harsh.

“It’s been a long night, Rollickus. And I look like I had the shit kicked out of me because I did—and then I almost drowned trying to get in here.” She fixed them all with a look that was somehow both her mother and her sister, and watched them quell and shrink under her glare.

Mari walked up with a wide grin, slapping Elysia on the back and ignoring her venom. “Knew you’d make it. Can’t blame us for our tests—sacrifice, loyalty, magic. They’re important here.”

She turned to face the group of wary, but curious people in the room, delivering a stern expression. As if they were school children that simply needed a firm hand. “Everyone, this is Elysia. Let’s remember not her place with the Crown, but what she did tonight, so that for once we could all meet. She passed our tests and made treason bells ring. Let her be welcome.”

Some of the crowd relaxed at her words, but Elysia noticed there were many who did not—pursed lips and scowls still staring back at her. A woman in heavy trousers and a thick sweater with the sleeves shoved up was one of them. Jet-black hair and pale skin, the woman spat when their eyes connected. Kicking back the wooden chair they all seemed to be sitting on, the woman stood, crossing her arms.

“I heard you’re why Syren Herrin is dead.” There was a vicious ache in her words. It was a sound torn between pain and vengeance, and the feeling of it was familiar as her own thumbprint to Elysia.

She met the woman’s eyes, a certain coldness overtaking her. “Syren Herrin died because she healed without restraint or self-preservation. She was a dead woman long before I helped her along.”

The dark-haired woman moved fast, her strides hard and purposeful, but a lanky young man with bright blue eyes flung out a hand, a gust of wind knocking her back.

“ Sit down , Jessa .” Mari’s light, breezy countenance shifted, and Elysia quickly surmised that all the muscle packed onto her short body wasn’t just for show. Magic or mundane, the woman looked confident and ready to hold her own.

Eyes like slits, the dark-haired woman made her way back to her seat. She sat down with a huff, knees spreading wide as she leaned in. “Mark my words, we’ll regret bringing a traitorous Crown bitch in our ranks.”

Elysia ignored her now. She would carry her shame and regret over Syren Herrin until the day she died. But that wasn’t anyone’s business but her own. She hadn’t come here to make friends, anyway. The twinge in her chest negated this, but she ignored it, plowing ahead. She needed information, plain and simple. Information to save her own neck and then she’d never darken their doorstep again.

The room, much like the door she had come through, was a large circle. The only way in or out was that very same door that led back to the stairs and the sea. Lanterns hung off the sides of the chairs, giving the room a quiet, cozy light. A myriad of faces sat in the old, worn-out wooden chairs. Pale like the moon, coppery and rich, to deep smooth brown—the crowd reflected that Relaclave had once been a place that people from all over the world made their home. Now, people avoided Kava, given the strange mundanity of their land.

The walls of the rebels’ refuge were made of dark slate, white scribbles and notes etched onto them all. Elysia’s eyes ran over the chaotic notes, wondering how long this place had existed. Volumes and volumes of books were neatly stacked atop each other and pushed up against the walls. She was willing to bet those books were amongst the titles that had been burned long ago.

Mari gestured to a chair and tossed Elysia a towel. “Sit. We’re adjourning soon, given the hour, but I promised you information. And it sounds like you need all the help you can get.”

Elysia squeezed out her hair with the towel, then patted it down the length of her. Dropping it to the ground, she stared at Mari impatiently, not bothering to sit. She gestured with her hand for the woman to go ahead.

Mari took a deep breath and began. Pride filled her words, and Elysia felt the room swell in response. “We are the ones the curse could not break. This land was once filled with every magic and gift you could imagine. Magic touched our food, our land—and every single heart and soul.”

She paused, staring poignantly at Elysia, her mouth tightening. “And then it was stolen. The undead gods are alive and well. Even now, when we do not recognize them, they carry on both serving and preying on humanity. They may have lost their foothold in Kava, but trust me, they are not gone.”

Elysia’s heart thumped. “You’re trying to tell me?—”

“That our magic was stolen by a jealous god from a realm that does not know the sun but only death. Victoria”—Mari pointed to a slim brunette with round dark eyes—“has seen visions of a realm with a bloodied sky and river of charcoal waters.”

Fear sluiced through Elysia, icy as the waters of the sea around them.

Mari closed the distance between them, clutching Elysia’s wrists, fervent and impassioned. “Is this where you go? To where our magic has been stolen?”

Her throat closed and mouth remained half-open, but wordless. She finally choked out a response. “How is that supposed to help me ?”

The mountain of her problems had just grown exponentially if this was true. The realm of a god who had stolen their magic? No, absolutely not, she wanted nothing to do with that. All she wanted was to be fixed. For all of this to be fixed. Her fingers clutched back at Mari as she stared incredulously.

Disappointment dropped Mari's full cheeks lower, but her voice was gentle. “We can hide you—but we need to know you’re after the same thing as us. The restoration of our people.”

Her voice broke off at the sound of an incessant thumping from above. Everyone in the room froze like rabbits in sight of a fox. It sounded as though someone was trying to break through the trapdoor.

Elysia’s gaze went wild, darting around even though she knew there were no windows or exits, only the singular round door. Could someone break through the trapdoor? She had no idea how something mundane like man-made iron tools fared against a magically reinforced trapdoor, but it sounded like the wood was splintering the same as any other.

Elysia looked to Mari, but the woman with the long black hair had pushed to the front of the room, and this time no one held her back. They were all thinking the same thing.

That she’d betrayed them just as easily as she had Syren Herrin.

“What did you do, you Crown piece of shit?” Jessa’s words were a growl, but she shoved past her, checking Elysia’s shoulder as she went. The woman didn’t waste another breath on the traitor amongst them. She stood tall and boomed her orders, preventing the panic that would turn into senseless chaos.

“ Quiet .”

The room halted, terror filtering through the room like a paralytic. Jessa met their fear boldly.

“We prepared for this.”

Heads around the room nodded grimly.

“Now move.”

She called out to a pair who were obviously siblings with the same sandy hair and clear blue eyes who were already taking hold of other rebels by the wrists. “Remember, take those who cannot fight first.” Jessa spun, already addressing someone else. “Belinda, the masks!”

The siblings' faces pinched in concentration, and then they popped out of existence, taking their precious cargo along with them. Elysia stared openly, stunned at what she had just witnessed. The thumps continued above them, the beat out of time and frenzied now. As if they knew they were close to breaking through.

Elysia startled at Rollie’s voice beside her. “Travelers. Not easy to take more than yourself. Well, not without real magic, anyway.”

She nodded numbly, her eyes going to his in pleading. “Rollie, I swear I didn’t.”

He nodded, giving her a look that made her feel as pathetic and naive as a child. “I know. But I think we all know who is about to bust through that door.”

Elysia opened her mouth to argue he was wrong—Topp was likely still puking with the rest of them at the castle, but the large beautiful woman named Belinda suddenly yelled for everyone to hold still. A breath later, there was a soft hooded mask disguising every face in the room.

Jessa pulled out two daggers from her belt, wielding them with practiced fingers. “Those who can fight stay to the front. If you’re waiting to travel, get to the back and keep out of the way.”

Rollie grabbed Elysia by the shoulder, starting to drag her back. “Come on. You heard her.”

Elysia shook off his grip, slipping closer to the front. She gave him a worn smile. “I can fight. You can barely walk without rolling an ankle. Get out of here, okay?”

There was a loud shout and then a roaring. It was the sound of the endless sea, battering and mad. Angry that it still did not gain entrance to their sanctuary.

Elysia’s hand went to her thigh and she swore under her breath. The dagger that had been strapped there was missing, likely lost to the tunnels or the sea. Tension wound her tighter as footsteps thundered down the concrete steps. In one quick motion, she ripped the tulle from her dress, leaving only a thin black slip and the corseted top, wet and molded to her body. Tossing the tulle aside, she prayed for the mask and adrenaline to cloud the incoming men’s vision. There was a fair chance the men about to enter had seen her gliding about at the party earlier, but she doubted these sorts of men could tell a tulle dress from a silk one even on their best day.

Shaking her arms loose, Elysia slid into a fighting position, waiting for the wave of death to roll in, wiping away the singular safe haven the cursed had found within Relaclave. The clatter of pounding steps stopped, everything suddenly far too quiet. In the silence, all she could hear was the hard swallows of the man next to her, the nervous breath of someone across the room.

Stilling herself, she found a peace that did not make sense. Physically, she was under the sea, the king’s men outside the door, ready to cut their lives short. But mentally she was on rooftops and damp forest floors and the sandy sparring ring all of Gage’s men trained in. Years of his relentless corrections and guidance acted like a spark, sharpening her mind and readying her muscles. She was not a warrior, nor was she helpless.

There was the soft tink of metal against metal—the simple lock being picked, and then the strange round door swung open and the king’s men surged in, a small wave of salt water coming in alongside them. Water sloshing, six of the Crown’s men strode in, confident, wielding both weapons and wicked grins. The hunt had found their quarry. And what a hunt it had been to bring them beneath the sea.

Elysia clocked their faces, not guards then, but the men who lurked near Garrison, always ready to slip off and do his bidding. No questions asked, these men were happy for the excuse to break skin and bone.

And in the rear, with a face so cold her own breath stuttered at the sight, was the Crown Prince himself. Gone was the impish boy who had grown by her side. In his stead was a creature quiet and still as the forest yet angry as a storm. A man with cruel eyes and a predatory gait—her heart should have broken. But it didn’t. There was only a second of sweeping grief, weighted and familiar. The kind that straightened her spine, refusing the emotions beneath. Because somewhere inside she had known—love was not to be trusted and people only let you down. Especially the ones who were supposed to love you most.

Her former lover, now a stranger, stood at the door, his hair and cloak dripping. Any warmth to his rumbling voice had been leached dry. “Remember your orders, captured, not killed.”

And then he simply surveyed the room, staying out of the fray as if he were above the cursed blood that would drench these floors regardless of his orders. The men at his side were wild wolves, not trained dogs, and they would not deny themselves the hunt.

Anger warmed her muscles and loosened her limbs. His betrayal was a layered thing that she didn’t have time to examine right now. All she could do was let it fuel her, let it be the kerosene that turned her to flame. He had ruined everything . She was a breath away from stepping into another life, one with people like her who could help—people who had a vision that didn’t include heads rolling in the main square.

She had been s o close.

A man launched himself at her, drugged cloth in one hand, the other wrapped in a fist and flying for her face. A sharp crack echoed inside her skull, blood gushing. Elysia danced back, wiping the back of her hand against the torrent of bright red staining her skin and teeth.

Eyes flicking around the room, she understood the score. A little brutalizing followed by a quick drugging. That was their method. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jessa pick up a chair and slam it down over the head of a short, thick man with a head like a melon. His melon didn’t crack, but he did crumple like a paper doll. Jessa threw down a lantern, lighting the man on fire for good measure.

Elysia blinked. That woman was on a whole different level.

Her pursuer attacked once more, but this time instead of darting back, she ducked under his incoming fist, gripped his neck and slammed her knee between his legs. Face purple, the man dropped, his hands cupping what was likely a disappointment, anyway. She was a practical woman who believed in doing what worked—and a sharp knee to the balls was effective one hundred percent of the time in her experience. On his knees and still clutching his jewels, her fist collided with his face, returning his favor and splintering delicate cartilage. Taking a cue from the demon by the door who had caused this all, she dropped to the floor and cracked the man’s head against the concrete until his eyes rolled back and lids closed.

A strange sense of power ran through her, bright and invigorating. Inhaling, she stood, swiveling and scanning the room. The travelers had cleared the back of the room. All those who remained were either drugged and unconscious on the floor or still fighting. The young man with bright blue eyes who had stopped Jessa, shoved his arms forward, face furrowed in concentration, but nothing happened. Erratic and unreliable, his magic did not respond. Elysia’s heart dropped, knowing it was too late. He was on the ground, writhing with a cloth over his face in moments.

Eyeing the exit, her mind flew even as her feet moved. The travelers would not be coming back. They’d done their job—it was each man for themselves now. Which meant it was that door or death. Determination turned her body fluid, her focus narrowing to the single goal of escape. Masked and anonymous, she could make it out of this yet. There was only one body blocking the door, and she wasn’t afraid of a backstabbing, spineless prince.

An enraged scream tore out, shredding her concentration and ripping her eyes to her left. Two men had Jessa pinned. The woman hadn’t conceded to this fact and was screeching and fighting like a mountain cat. Nails, teeth, and limbs blurred, but they were boulders to her pebble. Whatever her magic was, it was either defunct or not useful.

Jessa flailed, spitting in their faces and biting at their drug-filled hands. Once again, Elysia realized it was only the prince who stood in her way. The prince who stood in the doorway, looking bored and distracted, like this was a picnic he hadn’t wished to attend instead of a campaign of genocide.

I should run, I could make it. She knew better than to go back for the dying. But there were still rebels in the room, exhausted and deflated by the sight of Jessa being taken down. And deep down, she knew this was somehow her fault.

She hadn’t even taken a step when Jessa’s body went limp, her head lolling to the side and body sagging. Something in Elysia’s stunted heart felt furious at the sight—the woman was a bitch that she’d only just met, but to see her out cold with a foot in the grave felt unnatural and wrong.

Her mind shifted gears, making a fast and reckless decision.

She barreled straight for the prince, gaining speed with each step. Blankly staring at his men hovering over Jessa, his head turned a second too late. Her body was already airborne, mouth torn open wide, crying out for everyone to run. Every last scrap of her rage broke free as she pummeled into the hard body of the man she had so deeply wanted to trust.

Surprise and fury had them soaring, landing in a heap before the stairs. The look of utter shock on his handsome face made her want to purr.

“ Prince ,” she snarled mockingly before scrambling to her feet. She needed to lead everyone out. If they stayed in that room, they were dead. Two rebels had taken heed of her cry and were racing around her, up the stairs past the incoming water out into the sea. She shouted out again at the remaining rebels, but her words were cut short when wet fingers wrapped around her ankle, giving one sharp wrench. Arms grasping at thin air, she went down hard, ribs and chin cracking against the concrete stairs.

The impact deflated her lungs with a whoosh, and then the prince was straddling her. Knees shoved tight against her sides, his weight heavy on her middle. Pulse pounding, a crazed sort of flight or fight ran rampant in her.

“Hello, sweet liar,” the prince murmured, his green eyes lighting in the dark.

Water continued to pour in, careening down the stairs, soaking her once more. Her nostrils flared beneath her mask, only her narrowed eyes peeking out. She had expected him to know it was her, he’d tracked her here after all. But that just meant he should’ve known better than to have such a sloppy hold.

Wrapping her arms around his center, she yanked him closer, hissing in his ear. “My love.” Only to shove her hips up, twisting and toppling back over him. She grinned beneath her mask.

It’d been a beautiful reversal, really.

Fingers still covered in another man’s blood, she crashed her fist into the prince’s jaw. His lips curled up, unfazed by her violence, so she hit him again, right on his pretty mouth. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the king’s men dragging their victims to the door. Time to go. She let loose one more punch, cracking his skull against the stairs, but the prince just grinned, a dark laugh shaking his chest.

Blood speckled on his lips, he lifted his head. “Run, little liar, run.”

His words slithered inside her chest, squeezing her fear-filled heart. Leaping away, she was at the top of the stairs when it started. The sea began to win the war against the stronghold’s magic, pouring in heavy and fast, ready to drown and ruin. She looked at the wrecked trapdoor waiting for her to dive through and escape into the sea.

But Jessa’s prone body flashed through her mind. She’d lost count by now, but there were still other rebels down there. Both conscious and unconscious, succumbing to their execution instead of fighting to get out. Whipping back around, she spied one of the king’s vultures crouched next to the prince. She wasn’t sure how many of the king’s men were still fighting, but hopefully, at least a few of them were still out cold.

Feet nimble and sure this time, she raced down the stairs, grabbing a hatchet off of the prince’s leather harness as she went. Taking the blunt end, she slammed it into the temple of the king’s man, not bothering to stop as he pitched sideways down to the ground.

Standing in the doorway, she shouted. “Grab a body and get out, the water is coming.”

She watched someone grab Jessa, then fixed her attention elsewhere. Taking hold of a short but muscular man under the armpits, she heaved, aiming for the stairs. Bump by bump, she dragged him, her lower back straining and water hitting her hard. Twice, she nearly lost her step on the drenched stairs, but she was almost there.

The prince was nowhere to be found. Maybe he’d gone after the escaped rebels, or maybe he just didn’t give a shit whether anyone but himself lived or died. In the grand scheme of the Crown, it didn’t matter whether the cursed traitors drowned or died in the square. And the king’s men were replaceable. Broken, bloodthirsty men always were. Either way, it seemed the prince had fled, leaving Elysia to a watery grave.

She could hear people scrabbling below, but she’d done all she could. Their grace had run dry, and the Crown’s unconscious men would wake with vengeance in their bones at any moment. She dove into the sea, arms wrapped around the man’s chest, kicking wildly. The trapdoor had been in waist deep water beneath the docks, but the sea was angry now—vicious and thrashing as she reclaimed her domain.

Adrenaline was all Elysia had left. She swam hard, feeling as though each kick required strength she did not have to give until finally, waves around her legs, she could walk. What had felt like a short distance when she first walked out beneath the docks now seemed to be an eternity. Her back and shoulders strained, lugging the waterlogged man in her arms even as the water rocked against her.

But then there was sand. So much glorious sand. A cry broke free from her lips as her now bare feet touched the slick, packed down shore. I made it, I made it. She did not stop. Heavy step after heavy step, she dragged the rebel until she finally reached the place where the tides did not touch. Dropping him, she collapsed onto her hands and knees, chest heaving and limbs shaking.

The gods gifted her one whole moment of sweet relief, and then there was a laugh that made her skin prickle. Head turning, a large boot connected with her face. Her teeth bit through tongue, blood filling her mouth as she flew backward, landing hard against the sand. Before she could so much as put her hands to the ground, another harsh blow broke against her ribs. Vomit rose in her throat and she retched, bile burning as it escaped.

Bare arms wrapped around her middle, and she tried to roll away. Short, wet gasps fell out of her mouth while blinding pain scored through her entire being, confusing her senses.

I can’t breathe. The man was a looming shadow over the top of her now. His movements were slow and sure, the same as any animal when their prey rattles with death.

Tears blurred her vision. She had no idea which of the king’s men he was—he could have been any of them. And it didn’t really matter, did it?

His knees hit the sand with a soft thud. Leering, he stared down at her. “Does the magic make you stupid?” Drawing his elbow behind him, he rocked her face back with another punch, his fist practically the size of her face. Stars danced in her eyes briefly and then her vision was gone entirely in the one. He was talking, she was sure, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t hear.

“Should have run when you had the chance.”

Her skin split beneath his knuckles once more, but then he was grabbing for her mask and the sheer panic of discovery blazed through her like lightning. It numbed every broken bone and soothed the raw nerves of pain branching through her body.

Elysia screamed her defiance out into the open shores, shocking him with her guttural, wordless cry. There was no special maneuver or class to what she did—her body just knew it needed to survive this man, this night. Bashing her already wrecked face against his, she raked her nails down his sea-dampened cheeks. The man fell away from her, clutching his face and cursing. Stealing the man’s knife out of its holster, she plunged it straight into his throat. Hot blood spurted out the edges, his own personal fountain of death, hitting Elysia in the chest and face. Bloodied, she clambered to her feet wildly, tripping her way out of the sand and sprinting and panting toward the city.

Tears streamed down her face as she bit back sobs. Every breath burned like heated knives in her chest. Clutching her ribs, she forced her functioning eye to stay open and just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Nothing mattered as long as she kept moving. If she stopped, she would be dead.

Her broken breath and mind became one mantra. I will not die. I will not die tonight . Over and over, she sang this song through the old city and its wet, cobbled streets. It was all a blur as she pounded past. The creamy arched and sloping buildings all riddled with grime—the bright doors that refused to give up their color to the soot. She saw none of it. Her thoughts devolved to ill-formed, incoherent things. Not die, not night.

She ran until she could run no more, and when she stopped, she found herself staggering up to the door of the House Gardenia. One arm still wrapped around her aching ribs, the other rapped out two weak knocks, leaving behind dark smudges of blood on the green paint.

She just had to keep breathing. She did not even have to run any longer . Her single open eye closed, dimming the world to black. Plastering a hand against the doorframe, she gritted her teeth, fighting to stay conscious. But the black was more than just her closed eyes, it was all around her, pulling her far from the pain.

The door swept open, the Doorman laughing over her shoulder until she screamed, saying a name and something else over and over again. A tall, lithe body shoved the Doorman out of the way.

“Elysia, what—how?”

Long, thin fingers clutched at her arms. Distantly, she could hear her sister sputtering, and if her eyes had been open, she would have seen horror shaping her already angular face.

But Elysia had made it. Out of the water, through the city, and to this door. Her knees gave out and Beatriz stumbled, trying and failing to catch her sister. Intertwined, they sank down to the ground, Elysia’s weight falling against her big sister’s chest. And for once, Beatriz caught her, protecting her from breaking further.

She could feel Beatriz’s fingers clutching against her hair, but she couldn’t make out her frantic words. They floated away on the salted air like soot. She could feel her body shutting down, all the sounds indistinct and faded. The pain surrounded her now. Whatever had spurred her on from sand to cobbled streets to midcity had given out at the sight of a green door and silver hair.

A woman with black hair and sharp eyes flashed inside her head. She wondered if that terrible woman had survived. If any of them had made it out of the water, through the streets to their own green doors. Green doors, green eyes. Quietly, she thought of the man who had left her to die beneath the sea and if he had ever loved her at all.

Someone was carrying her now, each step jarring and horrible. A sweet, weighted darkness crowded in, though, easing her from her wretched state. But for once, she did not fall through worlds or realms. Tonight, she stayed in her own dream world.

It was an old dream. One she’d had many times of a little girl in a red sash staring up at the gallows. Except this time it wasn’t her sister or her mother staring down at her, it was a long line of rebels, just like her with dead, dead eyes ready to be pecked by crows.