Blessed be the wicked, p.10
Blessed be the Wicked, page 10
The soft motion of fabric being yanked sideways whooshed through the room as Imogen pulled on a dangling rope and moonlight—Leviathan’s blessing—filtered into the space.
“This is my private chamber,” the Queen said, lighting a candle and then another and another until the whole room was littered with small lights. “Feel free to take a seat.”
Quinn eyed her from the side, watching as she flitted around the room, moving as though she were much younger than her appearance. Her attention quickly turned to the space when it seemed that Imogen was in no hurry to talk. A large four-poster bed. Gold engraving. A luxurious fur rug. Several chaise lounges, and overstuffed wing-backed chairs. The woman had a penchant for material luxuries. “I’m fine here,” Quinn replied.
Imogen scoffed, but didn’t say anything as she strode for a long wooden bar at the back of the room and poured herself a healthy amount of amber liquid. She and Lazarus seemed to have an affinity in their taste of spirits. Quinn wrinkled her nose.
“I brought you here to ask you a few questions,” Imogen said as she took her place upon a deep burgundy chaise lounge.
“I find it interesting I was granted an audience, but not my lord.” Quinn lifted a brow. “Hoping that privacy means you can interrogate me?”
Imogen didn’t answer her, but responded, nonetheless. “How long have you known Lord Fierté?”
Quinn’s mouth quirked. “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer,” the Queen pointed out.
“It’s the only one you’ll get from me.”
Imogen sighed, tilting her glass up as half of the liquid in her cup disappeared in seconds.
Heavy drinker, then. Quinn mused. Is she chasing away demons with those spirits? Or inviting them in?
“This doesn’t have to be difficult, Quinn. I am not an enemy.”
“Then why won’t you give him an audience?” Quinn asked, genuine curiosity pushing her to the question. What could this woman possibly hope to gain by denying him a conversation?
Imogen shook her head. “I haven’t said I won’t give him an audience—”
“And yet, here we are, almost a week later and you’ve still denied him an opportunity to speak with you.” Perhaps it was not the wisest of actions to interrupt a Queen with a reputation like Imogen’s, but Quinn had never been one to care.
It wasn’t as if she were without power, both her own, and that of Neiss.
As if sensing her change in thoughts, the ancient serpent peeked its eye open, watching the situation from Quinn’s eyes. Listening to the things she left unsaid.
Imogen lifted a brow as she downed the rest of her drink. “Sit,” she commanded.
Quinn held for a moment, debating the consequences of disobeying such an order—but decided it wasn’t worth the repercussions. She sat on the edge of a royal blue, wing-backed chair and waited as Imogen refilled her glass before striding back to her lounge and reclining once more. She sipped delicately this time, taking care with the liquid as she hadn’t the first glass. Perhaps she is drowning her own demons if she drinks this heavily. Quinn was cataloguing each and every movement to decipher later.
“Do you know the difficulties of ruling a kingdom, Quinn?” Imogen didn’t wait for an answer. “The burden of being a dignitary is that everyone is looking to find a way to use you, fuck you, or kill you—so they can take your place.” She licked the amber spirits from her lips. “I’m sure your lord has some knowledge of that.”
Quinn stiffened.
“As Queen, I must know just as much about my friends as I do about my enemies, perhaps more.” Her eyes appeared cloudy, and a weariness had entered her expression.
“Which is Lazarus?” Quinn asked.
Imogen’s lips curved upward as her dark eyes met Quinn’s stare. “That has yet to be determined.” Shifting so that one leg crossed the other, Imogen leaned forward. “You are interesting to me, Quinn. That’s why I asked you here. Lord Fierté has become quite well-known as the heir to end the reign of blood in Norcasta. He is infamous for the shadowed whispers that follow him everywhere he goes.” Imogen leaned back again with a huff of irritation. “Unfortunately, however, most of what I’ve heard are just that—whispers, rumors. None of it can be proven.”
“What is it that you want to prove?”
Imogen set her empty glass down on a stone-carved table at her side and crossed her legs again. “I want to know what kind of man he is.”
Quinn frowned, her eyes tracking the Queen’s movements as she shifted, the darker woman’s hands sliding to the side as she gripped the arms of her chair and met Quinn’s watchful gaze. “That still doesn’t explain why you brought me here,” Quinn said. “What kind of man he is isn’t exactly something I can speak to.”
“I beg to differ.” Imogen gave her a sly smile.
“I didn’t know Queens begged for anything,” she replied.
Imogen barked out a surprised laugh as she leaned to one side, wiping her eyes as they filled with tears of mirth. “You do so amuse me, Quinn of House Fierté. Alas, you are not wrong. There is very little I would ever feel the desire to beg for.”
“I doubt anyone ever truly feels the desire to beg,” Quinn replied. “If they do beg, it’s likely out of need.”
Imogen hummed; a non-response that was reply enough. The Pirate Queen dropped her hands, but not her guard. Her face was as imperceptible as it was beautifully unique. “Perhaps you’re right,” she finally said, “but that’s not why I called you here.”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “You wanted to know more about Lazarus. Why you called me here to answer your questions—regardless of your interest in me—still makes no sense. There is little about Lazarus that I know that you likely don’t.”
Imogen shook her head and settled her gaze on Quinn with an eerie focus that made Quinn’s own attention sharpen. “Why do you think his character is not something that you can speak to?” Imogen asked.
“I think you misunderstand.” Quinn kept her eyes locked with Imogen’s. The whole of the conversation felt like a farce to Quinn; a test. “Whatever whispers you’ve heard are likely all there is to know about him. I have no extra information to provide. Should you desire more, I suggest you ask him directly.”
Imogen’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Fair enough,” she replied with a nod. “But I still believe there are some things where your opinion on the matter would hold . . . weight.”
“Such as?”
“His capacity for loyalty,” she finally answered.
Quinn frowned. “You’re asking me if I think he’s loyal?”
Imogen didn’t respond, but merely waited on Quinn expectantly. Silence echoed in the private chamber.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Quinn spoke with a sharpness of tongue, her patience finally running thin. “You bring me here to question me, but you dance with your words. Speak plainly. I’m not a diplomat. What is it you’re really after, Imogen? Are you a Queen of Pirates or a Queen of Evasion?”
Imogen doubled over and released a torrent of laughter, peals of it coming from between her lips so suddenly that it appeared as though she had succumbed to some sort of hysteria. A madness. “Queen of Evasion,” she finally said, calming after several moments. Still, her body seemed to shake even as she composed herself once more. “Now, that’s an accusation I haven’t heard before. It’s a wonder no one’s thought of it.”
Quinn silently fumed as she stared at the other woman. She knew it was not wise to oppose or rebuke a woman with such power, but Quinn felt that buzzing still. The drive of her power—and it wasn’t coming from her. Is the Queen afraid of something?
“I want to know if I can trust Lord Fierté,” Imogen admitted, boring her intense stare into Quinn. “I want to know if Lazarus will be the end of my kingdom or if he’ll be a help to my reign. I want to know, through his own vassals, what kind of man your Lord is. I brought you here because you seem quite candid. So, can you, a N’skari woman, under the thumb of a Norcastan noble, tell me if I should trust the man or not?”
Quinn shook her head. “I’m afraid,” she said slowly, “that you’ll have to find out the answers for yourself.”
The Queen tilted her head to the side but didn’t appear to be upset or enraged as Quinn predicted. “You’re unexpected. Quite unexpected.”
Quinn’s back stiffened. “What does that mean?”
When Imogen turned her head, bringing her arm up to rest on the arm of her chaise, Quinn noted a bead of sweat slide from beneath the woman’s hairline down her jaw. “The N’skari are known for keeping to themselves. They rarely, if ever, allow outsiders into their midst. And just as well, they also rarely leave their country. The coldness of N’skara is unnatural—it keeps more than the people away; it keeps those born within it sequestered against the rest of the world. I can count on one hand how many N’skari I’ve met in my lifetime. You may look N’skari, and whether you were at one point in your life—on the inside—you no longer are.”
Quinn’s expression closed off as if shutters were falling over her eyes—hiding her thoughts away from the perceptive Queen. N’skara might have been her homeland, but even as a child, she’d never fit in. Quinn was a black Maji in a sea of light Maji that looked down upon the gray. Black was a stain in their society. A sin. She had been a secret and a weapon. It seemed the more things changed in this world, the more they stayed the same . . . but not her. Not Quinn. As a child, that darkness lurked, and as a young woman, it festered and rotted. It grew. She may look like the people she longed to return to . . . but only the wicked understood how evil hid in plain sight.
She and her people were the same in that—and only that.
Imogen rested her head on her palm, sighing heavily. She blinked slowly, her eyelids sliding closed for a moment longer each time until she forced her eyes open with a jerk and dropped her arm, standing from her seat.
“Can I trust him?” she demanded.
“Can you ever truly trust anyone without reservation?” Quinn replied. Imogen glanced back at her and smiled.
“You say you’re not a diplomat, but you speak the pretty words as well as I do,” the Queen said.
“I speak honest ones,” Quinn replied. “He wants an alliance. You know this, but you ask yourself if you can trust him completely. I don’t understand why it’s even a question. Alliances exist to benefit you both; not to be friends. This is an exchange made for power.”
Imogen watched her shrewdly. “Very well. Tell me—is he a kind master?” Another bead of sweat slid down her face. “Is he cruel? Does he pay you well? How much?”
Quinn pursed her lips and didn’t respond.
Imogen chuckled, a raspy noise in her throat. She coughed as the amusement subsided—a wet hacking sound. Quinn frowned, but before she could say anything, Imogen went on. “What would you say if I told you that I could offer you ten times as much as he pays you?” she said. “I’ll make the offer, you know. You interest me, Quinn, and I think my daughter admires you.”
Imogen took a step forward, stumbling a bit as her hand shot out and steadied her against one of the stone tables. “What say you?” she asked again, panting.
Quinn moved forward; her hand outstretched. “Are you—”
“I’m fine.” The Queen waved her off before standing upright again. “Answer the question. Would you consider joining Ilvas?”
Stubborn as she was, she was obviously exhausted. The signs were as clear as the dark circles forming under her eyes. Still, she stood tall, her gaze dark and fiery, albeit clouded over with an obscure haze.
Quinn shook her head. “You couldn’t offer me enough money in the world,” she said. “What Lazarus provides—what he will provide me with if he wants to continue to use my power—is far more valuable than all of the glittering jewels in your kingdom.”
Imogen laughed, and the sound hurt Quinn’s ears. Curling her lips in confusion and disgust, Quinn took a step back as Imogen’s laughter turned into yet another hacking cough. A knock on the door distracted her for a moment, but in the next instance, a wet, bubbly noise recaptured her attention.
“What—”
With the Queen’s next cough, a splattering of blood erupted from her lips. Red droplets hit the marbled floors, crimson stained the fur rug, and a single bead ran from the top of Quinn’s boots.
Imogen panted as she doubled over, one hand pressed to her abdomen. She cursed in Ilvan as the door opened and the top of Zorel’s head appeared. “My Queen?”
Dark eyes encased in true fear raised to meet Quinn’s gaze, sending a sizzle of addictive power sliding through her veins. Zorel’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—Imogen reaching up for Quinn with drawn brows and blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth.
“I’ve been poisoned,” Imogen half-whispered, half-coughed as she fell against Quinn’s front.
Her arms went out to catch the fallen woman and blood smeared her ivory skin, creating streaks of red down her arms.
“Guards!” Zorel shouted.
Quinn jerked her head up as the doors were flung even wider and several armed men intruded. Zorel glared at Quinn—his ominous gaze drilling into her as he pointed. “Arrest her on the grounds of treason. She’s poisoned the Queen.”
War and Reason
“Some creatures are simply too powerful to be strong-armed into compliance. Where fear cannot motivate, reason can.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, heir to Norcasta, cunning prince
* * *
Lazarus paced restlessly through the chamber. His half decanter of spirits left forgotten on the tableside as the fire roared in the hearth, courtesy of the firedrakes temper beneath his skin. The creatures within him were growing bolder in Quinn’s absence. Where before the removal of the basilisk would have made them easier to handle, in truth, they had only become more difficult. With his emotions fraying dangerously close to madness and the beasts continued relentlessness, Lazarus felt the edge drawing near.
He clenched his fist, and the flames died down as the firedrake sensed its master’s ire was not far. The beast, unable to act on its baser instinct, scratched and clawed at his insides for a moment before settling with a huff of its lethal feathers.
“I’m sure it will be alright, Lazarus,” Draeven started, pulling him from his reverie. “Quinn’s a bit brash but, then, Imogen was a pirate. They’re probably swapping stories about people they’ve ransacked or killed by this point . . .” His left-hand’s eyebrows drew together for a moment, his lips pinching. “On second thought, perhaps worrying isn’t the worst thing.”
Lazarus scowled. It was bad enough the Queen had sent her child as the envoy, and not a dignitary—but she still refused him an audience and instead granted it to Quinn. He thought this was all part of her games, and that she’d question Quinn and decide from that. He couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps there was more to it.
His eyes narrowed on the door as an unbidden thought crept into his mind that was all his own. If she’s taken an audience with Quinn to try to lure her away from me, it will be at the expense of her kingdom. Lazarus’ fists squeezed, his knuckles turning white as he considered all the ways Imogen might try to convince Quinn to change sides.
“Lazarus,” Draeven said warily. He sat up in the lounge, setting his grapes aside. His movements were slow, exaggerated with a purpose. “What has your souls vying for power? What are you thinking?” His violet eyes dropped to Lazarus’ wrists, where inky shadows had indeed started to inch their way around his cuffs.
“Imogen is a smart woman and a vicious Queen. She granted an audience for Quinn alone, and I can’t help but wonder if there might be more to it.” Lazarus turned away from his friend and toward the fire as he inhaled slow, even breaths, pushing the souls down, back into submission.
“You don’t think—”
“I do,” Lazarus said. “Quinn is invaluable. Priceless. With her, Imogen doesn’t need to align with anyone to keep her kingdom out of war. The entire Sirian continent could fall and she’d be able to withstand.”
Draeven shook his head and sighed. “Quinn wouldn’t change sides, Laz, no matter what Imogen offered.”
“What makes you say that?”
Draeven continued, coming to stand beside him. “Weren’t you listening to a word of what she said before she left? Quinn doesn’t value gold or jewels. She values power—and freedom.” Lazarus considered this for a moment.
“And you don’t think that Imogen could offer her those?”
“Assuming she could even find a way around the contract, which as far as you or I know is impossible—no, I don’t think she could.” Lazarus shook his head, still unsure, and not liking it. When had the tables turned so much, Lazarus was no longer certain who was the master. Since when had Draeven begun to speak of her loyalty, when only a month ago he had been so certain she was a bad idea?
“What makes you so certain Quinn would stay?” Lazarus asked quietly.
Draeven stared into the flames, the red glint reflecting on his face as the fire danced between light and shadow. “Answer me this. If Quinn came to you today about her enemies—would you stop her from seeking vengeance?”
Lazarus rubbed his forehead. Would I stop her from seeking vengeance? Understanding clicked within him. He turned away, and though he didn’t answer aloud, Lazarus knew the truth. No, he wouldn’t stop her. He didn’t have any desire to stop her. Instead, Lazarus craved to guide her into being the weapon she was meant to be. He wanted to wield her as one might a sword. Only in the past week had he seen the repercussions from his actions. To control a powerhouse like Quinn was to risk one’s own safety, but if the reins were too tight, he would risk her turning on him. His true concern. Because while Quinn clung to the darkness inside her like a soldier did their sword, if he wanted to continue to be the beholder of that power, he had to accept there would be slips. Accidental and not.
