Blessed be the wicked, p.6
Blessed be the Wicked, page 6
Turning her side back to him, Quinn reached down and lifted her shirt once more without preamble, shuffling down her trousers for him to peer at the blackened mark upon her skin. Draeven traced the edge of his fingertip around the outside of the snake. Yes, he thought, a perfect circle. . .
“It’s—” he began, only to stop as a knock sounded on his door, and without a pause, the noise of the handle unlatching sounded throughout the room. Draeven knew who it was before the man spoke; only one person had the sanction to intrude on his chambers without waiting for an answer.
“Draeven, I’ve come to—” Lazarus’ voice came to an abrupt halt as Draeven stood up and Quinn dropped her shirt. The dull thud in his skull grew increasingly painful. One look at his expression told Draeven that he had already noticed Quinn’s exposed skin—and his own hand caressing it—and Lazarus was not happy.
With a sigh, he moved away from her. “I think it’s time I retired for the evening,” Draeven said with a wince. He reached the edge of the bed and grabbed his boots, leaning over to quickly tug them back on.
“This is your room,” Quinn pointed out.
Draeven glanced between her to Lazarus before shaking his head. “I think I’ll sleep in Dominicus’ room tonight.”
“What if he’s not there?” Quinn pointed out.
Draeven huffed out a breath as he reached the door and called over his shoulder, “Then in the stables. It wouldn’t be the first time.” With that, he strode out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them to stew and linger without him.
As misfortune would have it, Dominicus was not in his room, as Quinn had suggested. His knock went unanswered, which only served to double his weariness as he marched out of the Queen’s palace toward the stables. Upon reaching them, he stopped just inside and inhaled the scent of sweat and hay. A quick gander around told him that the place was empty except for the beasts in their stalls.
Heading down the line, Draeven’s feet shuffled until he found an empty stall. It appeared someone had taken their horse out for duty and the stable hands had cleaned the quarters and tossed in clean hay. As soon as he had the stall door closed, Draeven fell face first into the pile of fresh straw.
The ache against his temples ballooned into impossible proportions. No living, breathing man should take the amount of pain he had. The gods marked him with the ring of fire, a rage all-consuming and everlasting. It was a powerful gift bestowed upon him, but with power . . . there came consequences.
As Draeven lay there, surrounded by the wafting smells of dirt and horse feed, gritting his teeth against the bottomless pit of his lethargy and pain—he wished for the impossible. He wished for all of the rage to disappear. He wished to give back this horrendous gift. He wished the mark of the gods would disappear. And even as oblivion reached out its sickeningly long fingers, gripping him by the throat and limbs to drag him into the waiting void, he wished for one last thing.
Peace.
Like Calls to Like
“Some men live for honor, others for love, and even still there are those that live for something so few survive. Chaos.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, heir to Norcasta, indomitable prince
* * *
The door clicked shut behind him, but Lazarus didn’t move. He peered at her through the dimly lit room, noting how the muscles in her shoulders locked. Her head was bowed at an angle, but not in reverence. Her face was tilted slightly down, her cold blue eyes staring at nothing in particular. The angle of her jaw and cheekbone was striking, sharp enough to cut. The vein in her neck pulsed.
His eyes traveled down the slender column of her throat to the rumpled shirt she wore. The edge folded at an awkward place, just over her left hip, revealing an inch of pale skin. Dark blotches broke it up, but there wasn’t enough visible for him to tell what the mark actually was beyond a faint guess.
Quinn cleared her throat and straightened out, folding her arms over her chest. It would have amused him, had he not just found her with her shirt up and his left-hand looking on while tracing her skin with his fingers.
The only saving grace for Draeven was that Lazarus knew he wouldn’t touch Quinn in that way. If not because she was his, but because the man had softer tastes than Lazarus. He preferred them pretty and soft spoken. Draeven liked his women as damsels, sweet and pliable. Gentle.
Quinn might be beautiful, but when she spoke with a softness, it wasn’t out of shyness or reserve. When Quinn spoke softly, all around her would do better to be wary and fear what her words meant. Draeven knew that. Lazarus knew that he knew that—but Quinn didn’t.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
He motioned to the room before her with one hand. “I came to see my left-hand, but it seems you scared him off.” She scowled, her violet brows drawing together as a pucker formed between them.
“I scared him off?” she asked, letting out a huff. “He was helping me before you walked in. So, what did you want? What was so urgent that you had to come meet with him in the middle of the night?” She narrowed her eyes, and the corner of Lazarus’ lips turned upward.
“I could ask you the same, and unlike me, you would have to answer.”
She scoffed, and the grin slipped from his lips.
He might like the hard edge around her and the cold touch of her skin, but the way she mocked him was exactly why he could not have her as he wanted.
His crown would not withstand it.
“Answer?” she asked. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she took a step forward, a derisive smile forming on her lips. “You think that with enough time and careful manipulations I’ll be just like the others, don’t you? That you can ask anything of me, and I’ll offer it up without thought to ask for the same in return?”
He stared down at her, not sure if provoking her was wise. He needed to maintain control, but the closer she came, the more it slipped away as the beasts beneath his skin stirred. Her presence rattled them as nothing else did, and while he needed to restrain them, he wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop either. Something about her kept him rooted to the floor when he should have turned and left her to her antics.
Quinn stepped forward, coming so close they were only inches from touching.
Lazarus took a harsh breath and spoke.
“If you think that I can ask anything of them and they give it without thought, you don’t see as much as you think you do.”
“I see enough,” she answered.
“You see what you want to see,” he replied. She turned to walk away, and he grabbed her wrist, not pulling but preventing her from moving all the same. Quinn paused, but she didn’t look at him. She stood there, as if she were waiting for something.
“You wanted Draeven and he’s gone now. You’re still here. So, what do you want?” she asked eventually.
Lazarus had many ways he could answer her, from demanding what she was doing here, to letting her go—as he probably should. All his life he’d been a man that put his ambitions first. He acted in the better interest of himself, and then later, his house. Quinn was part of his house, but she was right about one thing.
She’d never be like the rest of them.
It wasn’t her power alone that made it so, but something inside her that, like him, couldn’t help but crave the chaos.
Some people thought it a pit of despair.
For some, it was.
But for an even smaller number of persons, chaos was life. There was order in the disorder. A method to the madness. In the confusion, some found themselves and even fewer found something far more precious.
Purpose.
In this, he and Quinn were more alike than any other souls in all of the Sirian continent.
So many had lost themselves, lost their families, lost their values, lost everything to the chaos.
But not in their case. Something in it resonated within them.
Like calls to like.
And that was why he was still here instead of leaving as he knew he should. There was a thrill in playing these games with her, and even if he couldn’t have what he wanted, he wondered if he’d ever truly be able to give this up.
“What do you want?” she repeated again. Many things came to mind, but he pushed them all aside.
“It’s been a week,” he said.
She turned, raising a brow. “You want an answer but you’ve yet to ask a question.”
“Your stomach”—he released her wrist to let his finger trail down her side and grasp the edge of her shirt—“there’s a mark on it, but I had all slave brands removed. Where and how did you get it?”
She blinked, but he hadn’t pulled at the fabric, instead waiting to see what she’d say, how she’d respond.
He was not disappointed.
She stepped back, and the material slipped from his fingers. Quinn grabbed a handful of her shirt and pulled it up, then pinched the band of her trousers and tugged them down. There, burned in her skin below her navel and to the left, was a mark.
“It’s my mark of ascension. It showed up after the battle outside of Tritol. Draeven told me all Maji have one,” she said. He leaned forward, unaware he was extending his hand until she stepped to the side. Lazarus paused, swallowing hard.
“They do. Yours is quite interesting . . .” He trailed off. She lifted a brow but did not ask what he meant. Lazarus knew why. She had something else she would ask of him.
In this case, he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not.
Maji had a mark that represented their magic, but it was also specific to them. Hers was the ouroboros. They were seen as a sign of life and death. A mark of rebirth.
He wondered why the gods would place such a mark upon her.
“I have a snake beneath my skin. I don’t find it all that strange the gods might put another on me. Neiss was the god of fear, and he was said to have snakes for hair that struck fear even into the hearts of the other gods.” He nodded.
“Perhaps,” he answered. Or perhaps the gods meddled more than men believed. Something about the mark unsettled him. He pushed that thought aside as she dropped her shirt.
“I want to see your mark,” she replied.
He wasn’t shocked by the request. If she’d come to Draeven about her own mark, as he suspected she had, then she’d be curious about the marks of others—how the gods chose to claim them.
He reached for his tunic, and her eyes tracked the motion. Heat settled in his veins as the souls took notice. Lazarus pulled at the fabric, sliding it up his chest until he held it almost to his neck. Quinn squinted, stepping forward once again.
“You have so many—”
“Here,” he pointed over his heart. She tilted her head, moving closer. He ignored the scent of her as it drifted over him.
“I don’t understand . . .” Her lips parted, and she tilted her head. “They’re attacking it.”
He didn’t say anything as she lifted a hand, her fingers brushing over the center of his sternum. The beasts paused, turning their attention toward her as she traced the outline.
The sensation of her cool fingers over his heated skin made him catch his breath, only to inhale the delectable aroma of her magic. His muscles strained, wanting to reach for the woman that tortured him.
After a long pause, she looked up at him.
“Why do they attack yours?”
“I let you see. I don’t have to answer,” he replied, starting to pull away. She reached up with her other hand and wrapped it around his bicep, digging her nails in like claws.
“Actually, I never asked. Therefore, you never answered.” She smiled faintly as her words came back to him.
I want to see your mark.
Not a question, but an implied request. He narrowed his eyes at her, not truly angry, but frustrated that he seemed to be losing this battle of wills with her.
“A Maji’s mark is tied to their soul, as is their magic. When you were drained of your magic and the basilisk with you, the result was that you merged. The creature is now part of you and you it.” She frowned.
“I don’t see what that has to do with the creatures beneath your skin attacking your mark,” she whispered.
He leaned forward until their lips were only a hairsbreadth apart.
“I consumed them. They only exist because my magic keeps them alive. In turn, they each eat away at pieces of my own soul.” He sensed the shiver that ran through her. Whatever magic inside of Neiss that bound them together also bound her to him as a result.
“If that’s true, one day you’ll have no soul at all,” she said.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. Lazarus was not a man that feared easily. He was not intimidated by gods he could not see. He bowed to no one in this life, but he strongly suspected what the price of that might be.
“Perhaps.” He stepped away, and her hands fell to her sides once more. Lazarus lowered his shirt, covering the only proof of who and what he was. “But what use does a man have for a soul if his enemies can’t kill him?”
Lazarus turned to leave when her voice stopped him.
“They might not be able to, but there is one thing that none of us can outrun no matter how powerful we might be.” She paused, letting the quiet settle between them. Lazarus felt the silence creep up the ridges of his spine and delve beneath his skin to swim with the souls he’d consumed. “Do you know what that is?” she finally asked him.
“Time?” He guessed the answer, looking over his shoulder as he did.
“No. While I don’t know it, I imagine there are ways to outrun even that. The thing that no one ever escapes is fear.” Her eyes glowed brighter for a moment. The depth of the blue deeper and vaster than any ocean, and even more treacherous. “And that’s because fear lives within its victims always. From the moment they are born, to the moment they perish under the watchful eyes of the gods. It can make a prideful man beg for death. It can make a strong man break. And it does all of this without laying a finger on them. Fear can eat you alive, from the inside out, until you would do anything for the escape of the dark realm.”
“I don’t fear death,” he said.
“No,” she agreed, nodding her head. “You fear losing control of yourself, and it makes me wonder why. For someone that doesn’t value their soul, you don’t want to lose it.”
Lazarus didn’t respond as he let himself out. Yet, still, the echo of her words rang in his ears. Quinn had no idea how right she was.
Battle for Ilvas
“In a land of sheep, it pays to be a wolf.”
— Quinn Darkova, vassal of House Fierté, fear twister
* * *
Quinn’s hand clenched around the iron railing overlooking the Bay of Tritol. Across the surface of the glimmering water, two ships faced off. To one side, a black flag with a skeleton queen floated on the slight breeze as the heat of Leviticus’ eye bore down on the quickly gathering crowd. On the other side, a white flag bearing two crossed axes waved over a red-haired girl.
Axe’s lips were drawn in a smirk as she stared over the strip of water at the opposing vessel her mother commanded. Imogen’s long slender fingers wrapped around the wooden notches of the wheel, turning it slightly. A wind whipped through the bay, blowing the dark strands of her hair from her face. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, something reminiscent of the stories of the pirate she had once been before she became Queen.
“Two of a kind, aren’t they?” a voice said, drawing Quinn away from her observations.
Zorel, Imogen’s advisor, joined her against the railing as the battle began with the firing of cannons in the distance. The shock of the noise startled some of the crowd but was quickly met with a deafening roar as the two ships began moving.
“They do know how to put on a show,” Quinn agreed, returning her gaze back to the scene before her where the winds and waters had the two vessels gaining speed against one another as they cut through the choppy surface.
“They look forward to this every year,” Zorel admitted. “It is the one week that my Queen gets to indulge in her old delights while enjoying the praise of her people as well—for the prosperity she has given them in conquering this great land.”
Quinn hummed low in her throat as a response. The scent of black powder hung in the air and cries of violence rose in from the crowd as the opposing crews stormed each other’s decks in a clash of swords. Plumes of gray and black smoke lifted to the skies.
“It’s an interesting way to celebrate,” Quinn finally said as one of Imogen’s men swung across the narrow stretch of water, his sword in one hand and the rope clasped tightly in the other. His boots teetered on the edge of the wooden rail of Axe’s vessel as he tried and failed to balance, only to be shoved over into the unforgiving waves. A head full of ruby-tinted hair popped up and a hand reached out, grasping the fallen man’s rope before it could swing back to Imogen’s ship. Axe tightened her fist around the cable and hoisted herself onto the ledge. With a flashing grin she swiftly removed an axe from her belt and jumped—using the side of the blade to knock away an impending attacker as she landed upon the other boat. Quinn blinked as the girl disappeared from view, only to return a moment later as she flipped her attacker over the side, allowing him to join his other crew member in the bay below.
“Imogen reenacts the first week of her battle for Ilvas,” Zorel explained. “With a few caveats, of course.”
“Caveats?” Quinn narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Zorel stared over the bay to the two ships, quiet for a moment before he looked to Quinn and answered with a tight smile. “The Queen is grooming her daughter to take over for her someday, and these battles are part of Axelle’s training.” He turned back to face the encounter before continuing.
