Page 9 of Brimstone
Back in that maze, I hadn’t killed Malcolm for his crown. I’d done it to save myself. For vengeance. For my mate. I hadn’t asked to become queen of this hateful court. If it were up to me, we’d already be back at Cahlish, celebrating the fact that the king of the vampires was dead. But then where would we be? With another vampire lord rising to power, leaving Yvelia potentially worse off than it already was.
In the past forty-eight hours, I’d had a crash course in vampire court politics. And unlike when I’d found myself being lectured back in the library at the Winter Palace, this time I had paid attention.
Five vampire lords ruled beneath the vampire monarch—the Lords of Midnight—of which Taladaius was one. Regardless of sex, they had always been referred to as Lord, and apparently that wasn’t changing anytime soon. I hadn’t met the other Lords yet, and truthfully, I had no desire to meet them, either. From what I’d been told, they were savages, cutthroat and power hungry, and any of them would rip my head off for a shot at the crown. They were bound by the Law of Ascension, though. Theyhadto acknowledge me first before they could try to steal my throne. And if they acknowledged me, they had to obey me. At least for a time.
That meant there was a window. An opportunity. A chance to stop the war that had been raging for centuries. To put an end to the killing. Claiming the throne was the quickest way to stopthe nightmare without a tide of blood staining the land from the mountains to the sea.
I wasn’t from here. I wasn’t born here. Yvelia was not my home, but I understood suffering, and I was no stranger to the senseless kind of death that nipped at the heels of the weak and the vulnerable. If I could do something to help put an end to the bloodshed here, then I would. I had totry, at least. And call it wishful thinking, but I still hadhopefor the members of the Blood Court. Hope that they could be redeemed.
“Can anyone else hear that?” Carrion’s voice was raspy from the throttling he’d just earned himself. “Either my blood is still thumping in my ears, or the horde’s stampeding this way.” Aside from a little redness around his neck, he seemed none the worse for wear. He didn’t even flinch as Fisher strode past him toward the door, his boots thudding heavily against the carpet.
“They’re calling her out there,” he said, his voice distracted.
“Then that’s it. We need to go,” Taladaius said.
But Fisher came back and stood before me, ignoring my maker. His huge frame filled my vision. Dark hair, strong jaw, and beautiful ink. Not too long ago, I’d dreamed of him standing close to me like this. My fool’s heart had craved him more than my lungs had craved air . . . and now that he was mine and I was his, my need for him had only intensified. He had saved Onyx for me. He had risked his life for me, and from the look on his face now, he wouldn’t blink if he had to do it again. The tattoos marking his skin shifted as he swallowed, the muscles of his throat working. “You don’t need to do this,” he whispered. “There are other ways to accomplish our goals.”
She’s here. Here. Here . . .
I ignored the whisper that rushed in my ears, refusing to give it my attention. Not here, and not now. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the quicksilver since I’d woken in the palace after my transition. I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
I gave my focus to my mate instead, reaching up and cupping his cheek with my gloved hand. What I wouldn’t have given to feel the roughness of his stubble against my palm. Gods alive. That I even got totouchhim like this. That hewasmine in the first place. “Those other ways involve blood, and death, and fire,” I answered softly, my response meant only for him. The others could still hear, of course, but they politely pretended they didn’t.
Fisher leaned into my hand, closing his eyes for a moment. “I happen to think making these bastards bleed would be a good thing,” he whispered.
“I know. But what about the losses we’ll avoid this way? What about our friends? And the people of Cahlish? How can they return to their homes if Sanasroth is still seething away on the other side of the river?”
I had him there. Fisher loved his people. He hated that they had left Cahlish when Malcolm had trapped him inside that godscursed maze. If Fisher wanted his people to come home, then they needed a safe place to come back to. Fisher blew out a tense breath, but he nodded. “Fine. But the moment you don’t want to be here—”
“I’ll tell you, I promise.”
He dipped his head, breaking eye contact with me as he turned and went to the mirror, then collected my sword from the top of the dresser where I had placed it when getting changed. Solace was an ancient blade—one of the few remaining god swords that had once been imbued with magic millennia ago. It had belonged to Fisher’s father. The sword that had stilled the quicksilver for an age. The sword I’d drawn from the quicksilver to protect myself, which had accidentally reopened the pathways between worlds.
It was bonded to me now. The god swords were loyal, territorial things. It would have taken Fisher’s hands off fortouching it had he not used a scrap of silk to pick it up. He held it reverently as he brought it to me.
“You can’t be serious. That willabsolutelyruin her outfit,” Carrion said, aghast.
“He’s right.” Taladaius was standing by the door now, with his hand anxiously resting on the handle. “She can’t go out there with Solace strapped to her hip. She needs to appear regal. She can’t afford to look worried about her safety.”
The look Kingfisher gave the vampire and the smuggler strongly implied that he thought they were both stupid. “I don’t care how shelooks. I care about her ability to defend herself.”
“Then give her something else. Something subtler. Something she can hide. And for all the gods’ sakes, hurry.”
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
The sound was growing louder, faster, more impatient. Fisher hesitated but then sighed, setting Solace down on the chaise. “All right. Fine.” With deft hands, he reached into a small pouch on his belt and drew out a length of fine silver chain. He wrapped it around my waist, looping it at my hip so that its ends hung down almost to my knees.
“She doesn’t need a garrote,” Taladaius objected.
“It isn’t a garrote. It’s a belt,” Fisher replied amicably. In my head, he said,It’s a garrote.
I tried not to laugh.
He took one of his own daggers from the sheath at his waist, then dropped down to one knee in front of me. He looked up, his eyes locking with mine again, burning with a myriad of emotions as he slowly . . . carefully . . . parted the material of the dress along the slit to expose my bare thigh.
