1
Waiting is a special brand of torture. Seated on my bed, alone in the darkness, the silence hangs heavy with anticipation. I press a shaking hand to my chest, a vain attempt to ease the ache of my heart pounding against my ribcage. Memories plague my every breath—the wet snick of a knife piercing flesh, the sight of blood spreading across white linen, lips stretched into a scream no ears will ever hear.
I’m torn from my thoughts by the crash of footsteps across the hallway floorboards outside. There’s a shout and the crack of splitting wood as the door to the room beside mine is kicked open. Muffled voices, more crashing, something that sounds like breaking glass, and my stepfather, Leodin, shouting, his words unintelligible through the wall. I can imagine what he’s saying, though.
“What is this all about?” and “How dare you treat me this way.”
And when,at last, they find the knife wrapped in a bloody purple robe and stashed in his trunk, “That’s not mine,” he’ll say. “I swear that isn’t mine.”
It doesn’t matter that it’s the truth.
A fist pounds against my door and my heart leaps into my throat. It’s time.
The wood splinters and cracks as it is kicked once, twice, three times. The door flings open so hard it rebounds off the adjoining wall, only to be halted by the multitude of Bellatorae soldiers, in their white palace uniforms, spilling into my bedroom. Light from what seems like a thousand gas lanterns floods the small space, and I’m forced to squint and shield my eyes. Obviously, I’m not viewed as much of a threat because the soldiers don’t bother to draw their rifles, or even acknowledge my existence, really. They simply get busy ransacking my bedroom. Drawers are torn from my dresser, their contents emptied onto the floor, then discarded. The vanity is upended, sending my cosmetic case crashing to the floor in a mess of white powder and shattered glass. One officer, for no apparent reason beyond the pleasure of being a bastard, sweeps the photograph of Mother and me from my nightstand and stomps on it. They don’t even ask for the key to my chest before taking a metal cutter to the lock and flinging it open. My clothes, books and writing supplies are inspected, then thrown aside like trash.
Through the open doorway, I catch a glimpse of Leodin hanging limp between two guards, his shins dragging on the floor as they haul him away. Blood drips from the tip of his battered nose to merge with the bloodstains already soaking the front of his striped pajamas. They beat him unconscious—perhaps I should feel sorryfor him, but it’s hard to muster up sympathy for a man who never showed any to me.
Then again, it’s a distinct possibility I’ll be next.
Perhaps that’s why, when he arrives, his powerful frame filling my doorway, something in my chest eases. I don’t know why. Lieutenant Aemon Cregg, head of the crown prince’s personal guard, has been nothing but a thorn in my side since I first arrived at the palace. Even so, the sight of his striking cobalt blue eyes makes me feel…safeisn’t the right word, but it’s the only one I can think of. He must have been working late because he’s still dressed in his black trousers and vest from the party. His white shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and thick veins that make me salivate for reasons I can’t yet identify.
I fist the neck of my thin, white nightgown to better cover my chest and avert my eyes. It’s childish to pretend I don’t see him, but at the moment, indifference is the only armor I have left. His presence overshadows everyone else in the room. I feel his gaze heating the side of my face and, against my better judgment, I glance up at him and our eyes lock. His full lips, almost too full for a man, are stretched thin. The muscle in his chiseled jaw jumps as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. Is he angry? I wouldn’t blame him if he was.
Finally, Aemon strides across the room to stand in front of me. He folds his arms across his chest. “You don’t seem shocked to see me, Katya. Tell me.” He kneels so our eyes are level. “Were you expecting me?”
He’s trying to intimidate me, and it’s working, but I did not survive this long by allowing males to get the better of me, so I give him a flat look and cock a brow. “Seeing as you show upeverywhere else I am, why not my bedroom in the dead of night?” Gods help me, that did not come out the way I intended.
The sexual innuendo is not lost on the lieutenant, I’m sure, but for what must be the first time since we met, he doesn’t take a jab at the opening I’ve left for him. “Nobody touches the girl but me,” he shouts over his shoulder, his gaze holding mine. Shaggy brown hair falls just short of his brow, as Aemon tips his head, his eyes raking over my face, neck and chest. Heat blooms on my cheeks in response to his scrutiny and, noticing my response, his lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk. He brushes rough knuckles over the crest of my cheek and tucks a long, dark lock of hair behind my pointed ear. “It would be a travesty to mar this pretty face,” he says, his expression softening for a split second before the mask drops firmly back into place.
He lets out a long-suffering breath and stands, one hand extended to me. I take it, fully aware of what’s coming next, and allow him to help me up. “Turn around, witchling.”
I obey without hesitation. The shackles are cold and rough as they close around my wrists. Then he does something unexpected. He removes his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. “I’ll get some clothes to you later,” he says, then turns me to face him.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice thin as reeds.
“You know where.” He spins me around and pushes me out the door and into the hallway. Other guests watch us pass. A few brave souls stand inside the door to their quarters, but most are simply eyes peeking out through cracked-open doorways. I raise my chin and ignore them all. Still, I feel them watching, gazes full of unspoken questions. They’ll get their answers soon enough.
As if hearing my thoughts, the clang of the tower bell splits the night—two chimes, then silence. Then two more and silence. The world seems to hold a collective breath as they wait for the third set to ring. Even my security detail pauses to listen. Finally, a third set of bells clang, and chaos ensues as the rest of the palace comes to terms with what I already know to be true: the queen is dead.
2
One week earlier…
The blue and orange flame flickers merrily, unaware of the darkness weighing in on all sides. The lantern’s not even remotely up to the task, and I’m forced to squint to make out the tiny print in the grimoire I’m currently translating. My eyelids are heavy, and I keep catching myself drifting off. My stepfather had me up at the crack of dawn to help my mother in the clinic, despite knowing I’d worked late the night before, and it’s definitely catching up to me. I drop the pen back into the inkpot, then stretch my arms up over my head and crack my neck. I can’t afford to fall asleep in the library again. The last time was humiliating enough. Waking up to a bunch of schoolchildren giggling over me as I drooled on a 300-year-old manuscript was not the most pleasant start to my day. Not to mention the fact that Magi Eduard, the head librarian, wanted me whipped for the damage it did tohis precious manuscript—not that he could actually read it, but I digress.
The library at night is my sanctuary. Here, amongst the weathered tombs and stacks upon stacks of shelves crowding the small space, I can work in peace without having to worry about the whispers that plague my every step or the snickers that always seem to follow even my slightest mistake. I spend my days under such an unforgiving microscope, it’s no wonder I take solace in the dark. Magi—regardless of which of the nine spectral magics they practice—aren’t the friendliest sorts, even less so when you’re virtually magicless—is that a word?—and therefore of no use to them. Mama says I can’t access magic the way she can because I’m half-human. You’d think I would have inherited at least a small amount of healing power from my mother’s fae heritage, but beyond an ability to vaguely sense emotions and occasionally dreamwalk, I am magically bankrupt.
But here, cloaked in darkness, books stacked haphazardly on all sides, the scent of old paper and ink tickling my nose, I am everything I need to be. Am I jealous of the other fae in this dom and their abilities? Exceedingly, but I learned long ago there’s no use in focusing on what I’ll never have. Instead, I focus on what I can do, which is why I’m here—at this gods-forsaken hour—translating one of the hundreds of ancient books and scrolls crowding the stacks. I may not be able to divine the future or cast enchantments, but I do have an excellent ear for languages, and in this one tiny way, I’ve made myself useful… or at least less of a burden.
I pick the pen back up, shake off the excess ink, and continue the sentence I’d been translating. The door to the library flies open,slamming into the wall. Startled, I leap from my seat, pulse racing in anticipation of some sort of attack.
“Ow-wow-ow,” someone wails, and I scurry to the door to find my half-brother, Maxim, on all fours, his sweet face twisted in agony.
“Gods dammit, Maxim,” I whisper-shout, because this is still the library and I’m programmed to be quiet. I help him onto his rump and take in the damage. His hands are a little scratched up and his right knee is bleeding, but nothing serious. I let out a relieved breath. “Why aren’t you in bed?” I chastise, blotting the blood from his knee with the hem of my white robe. It’ll never come out, but the robe was getting ratty, anyway. “You scared me half to death.”
Max hisses in pain as I tend to his knee. His eyes are red and a bit watery, but he manages to hold back his tears. “Papa told me to come get you,” he says between laborious breaths. He must have run all the way here. “He said it’s urgent.”
I sigh. Leodin Valstrad’s idea of urgent could be literally anything he might want at any given moment: a tome of spells, letters to translate, tea—two scoops of sugar, no more, no less. “Fine. Just give me a second.” I help him to his feet and head back to my table.
