Page 45 of Court of Wolves

Fate really worked in mysterious ways.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The keening howl still rang in Azrail’s head when he was manhandled through the pale, crumbling hallways of the saints’ abode by two of Samlyn’s new foul-stinking army. Their dead hands on his arms made his skin crawl even through the ragged clothes he still just about managed to wear. He had no dignity, no hope, and barely any sense of self left.

He’d raised a horde of the dead and Samlyn turned them into an army full ofthingsfrom the other side of the cracked saints' circle. Vessels.

The smell of them filled every corridor they walked down, no longer shambling but purposeful and strong. The grip they had on Az’s upper arms were hard enough to bruise, and he’d had no luck dislodging them the whole time they marched him through the building.

The crumbled halls changed as Az was taken deeper into the palace than he’d been before, in a new direction. The columns were intact, the wild-growing plants cut back so the pale marble was almost pristine. Delicate carvings flowed along the walls, telling stories Az didn’t recognise of queens and legendary animals and heroes. Where the fuck were these vessels takinghim? Was this where the dark saints lived, among this grandeur and carved opulence?

A little chill went down his back when the vessels hauled him through a doorway whose lintel was carved with sweeping, sloping script in a language Azrail didn’t recognise. He dug his elbow into the ribs of the vessel on his left, to no avail, and stepped on the instep of the vessel on his right, to no effect. He couldn’t explain why his soul reacted, lighting up like the moon sliding out from behind a cloud, or why awareness skidded down the back of his neck, but he had the sense he was being led to his death. This next room would contain a guillotine, he’d be forced down onto it, and a blade would cleave his head from his neck.

But when the vessels strong-armed him through the doorway, it wasn’t an executioner's block but alakewaiting for him. Azrail had never seen a pool as large as this, and especially not indoors. The roof was high and sloping above them, hewn of the same pale marble as everything else, but the green water that spread out from where the vessels ungraciously dumped Az was like something from an old fae glen, still and peaceful with flowers floating on the surface where trees hung over the edges.

Az whipped around to stare at the dead as they released their grip and turned, leaving him there. What the fuck? Was this a new mind game, something to break him once and for all? There was a saint here, waiting to kill him or force him into another bargain that would shred his soul. He wasn’t sure he had much of that soul left after the slaughter at Kraeva.

Az dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion tugging on his eyes, weighing his shoulders. He didn’t have the strength left for another task, but that wouldn’t stop him fighting. There’d been days in Vassalaer where he wanted to stay in bed for days on end, but that people needed him, and giving up didn’t keep Evrille safe. It didn’t stop the Foxes from mistreating beastkindor people starving. Az had the power to help them. The world didn’t stop turning because he was tired.

So he sighed, expelling as much stress as he could, straightened his shoulders, and strode around the paved banks of the lake, scanning the strange room. Trees hid the corners, giving the illusion that he was outdoors, and he might have believed that if not for the doorway and the roof. Itsmelledreal, like nature and living things and relief. He dragged a deep breath of it into his lungs and waited for the hum and flicker of power to hit his veins. But the darkness and blood he’d been forced to choke down prevented it without a direct command from a saint.

The howling inside his head finally went silent.

Ahead of him a large white rotunda hugged the banks of the lake, as beautiful as anything he’d ever seen in the Delakore Palace gardens that one time he and the rebels blew it up. Shapely statues of women lingered around the columns of the rotunda and Azrail tensed, waiting for them to spring to life, to attack him.

Movement came instead from the banks of the river across from him. He hadn’t noticed a figure splayed on the ground, but his head whipped around now, eyes narrowing in assessment. A tall, slim woman lunged to her feet, putting her arms out when she wobbled, wings fluttering silvery teal at her back.

The world stopped turning.

Even his breathing ground to a halt.

For a moment she froze too as she noticed him, ragged and messy-haired and covered in grime, and then she exploded into a run. Az burst into movement at the same time, his shoes hammering the ground as he ran as fast as his bruised, battered body would allow.

They collided upon the steps of the rotunda, Maia’s too-slight frame knocking into him, knocking life back into his heart. He backed her up the steps and under the domed canopy, his handfitting itself to the back of her neck, cradling her against him as they wound up against a marble statue of a fae woman.

“Az,” she breathed, her voice like drops of sunlight on his soul, her hands frantic as she touched as much of him as possible. “Az. Azrail.Az.”

He bent his head, sliding his nose into her hair and dragging the scent of her into his lungs. Blood and sweat and honeysuckle, with an overture of… raw fish?

“Is this real?” he asked, choked by the lump in the back of his throat.

She fit against him like she was always meant to be there, her whole body trembling as his trembled.

“I don’t know,” she laughed, fingernails digging into the back of his ruined shirt. “Why are there cuts in your clothes?”

“Knives,” he replied, not wanting to get into any of the Brightwrath’s work right now. It couldn’t be allowed to mar this perfect moment. “Why do you smell like a fish market?”

“Because I wasata fish market,” she replied with another ragged laugh, her fingers sliding through one of the slashes in his shirt to press to his skin. Az bowed over her, the touch turning him weak, comfort hitting him as directly as any throwing knife.

“Maia,” he rasped, dragging more of her scent into his lungs and feeling something in his soul settle. “Sweetheart, fuck, tell me this is really happening.”

She tipped her head back to look at him and the sight of tears on her pale cheeks, cutting through layers of grime, knocked all the air from his lungs. Maia didn’t cry, even when the world fell apart, even when she was in pain, but she was crying now. “Maybe it’s a dream,” she rasped as he dipped his head to kiss the salt from her skin. “I thought I heard you in my dreams last night. You were shouting my name.”

He rested his forehead against hers, soaking in the warmth of her skin and gazing at her. Maia’s eyes met his, so close thatthey crossed a little, and a rough exhalation of laughter left him, feeling strange and alien. “I’ve felt you in my dreams, too. I’ve felt your pain, Mai, your suffering. What are they doing to you?”

When she hesitated, her mouth opening and closing, he pulled her tight against him, her head tucked under his chin. They were both a mess of dirt and blood and pain, clothes dark around the neck and armpits, but Azrail wouldn’t have cared if they’d been caked in mud and organs.

Maia shook her head against his chest. Az sank deep into his soul, flinching at the dark, twisted mess it had become. But there she was at the other end, shining as bright as any star, guiding him out of a storm. She slumped against his chest with a groan as if she felt the same rush of comfort, of connection.

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