Though her glare is heated, the pressure of the sharp tines at my throat lightens. She stares at me for so long, I’m overcome with the absurd urge to shift beneath her. To hide from a gaze that threatens to see straight through my skin and to the rot beneath.
“Help you,” she repeats dubiously. “What could I possibly helpyouwith?”
I laugh wickedly, staring up at her from beneath my lashes. “Use yourimagination,Willa Darling.”
Her nostrils flare at the jab, but she reins herself in with that same iron poise. “Is this the only way your necrotic ass can get laid? Because if that’s your idea of help, I promise…a fork through your balls would be more pleasant.”
“I’m hardly so prosaic as to desire the company of an inelegant urchin in my bedroom, let alone coerce it. The help I require is far more…delicate.” I settle on the word lightly. “Now then…do we have an accord?”
Willa’s face twists in fury, but now she knows her choice in any of this was only ever an illusion. It is onlymywill that dictates everything in Letum, and she’ll have to play nice if she wants the wards back to her world opened. Though if Willa is who I believe, by the time they are, it’ll be far too late.
She digs her teeth into her lower lip once more, chewing wildly, channeling her frustration into mutilating her flesh. But she manages a strained nod.
“Wonderful!” I bark, pushing my chair back with a loud scrape. Willa stares at me, both forks still suspended in the air. “Eat up. I’ve someone who’s justdyingto meet you.”
Chapter seven
Sam shepherds me back upstairs like he’s been saddled with babysitting an unruly child. No matter how I change my pace, he walks perfectly in step beside me, never allowing me to pull ahead or fall behind. And though he keeps his eyes trained forward, I feel his curious gaze more than once. In each instance, I bristle beneath it, my blood still boiling in my veins after having to suffer through the rest of breakfast with the bastard of death.
It had been a mistake to get so close to the Carrion King, even to kill him, as his proximity had been like dipping into an icy winter’s night. Fresh. Wild. Cruel. And entirely inescapable. Though I’ve put three floors between us, the biting cold of his presence still lingers. It dances over my skin, warring with the heat of fury pulsing through me, the combination dizzying in its intensity.
The sight of his blood dripping over his snow-white skin like specks of ink—a shade of black as enduring as his lightless gaze—should have sent me sprawling backward. Instead, it had latchedbeneath my ribs and drawn me toward him, a dark call that reverberated through me.
As I walk with Sam through the labyrinthine hallways of the palace, my stomach flutters uneasily. Grimacing, I pull my shoulders straighter and take a leveling breath. Pushing thoughts of the king and the unnatural pull of his presence aside, I focus on the task at hand. Pretending to be willing to help long enough to learn more about the wards he’d spoken of.
Sam stops at the end of a long corridor and presses his hand to the towering door. The etched plane disappears beneath his palm, and he ushers me in with a smile. My breath catches as I take in the room before me. The same inlaid windows as the rest of the palace stretch from floor to ceiling, but rather than art or tapestries adorning the walls, here, a wide variety of weapons are hung in neat rows. Each black blade is polished to perfection, the soft flame of the lanterns trickling over the immaculate metal. All various sizes and makes, and all crafted with the same detail as the rest of the palace.
I whip my head to Sam, narrowing my eyes. “Why did you bring me here?”
Sam shrugs. “His Majesty’s orders,” he replies simply, before gesturing to the wall of weapons behind me. “Pick whichever you’d like.”
I don’t move, wariness spiking through me. “I tried to stab him through the throat at morning tea. Why would he give me a weapon?”
Sam shrugs again, waving his hand irreverently. “It isn’t in my job description to decipher the inner workings of His Majesty’s mind, and I’d loathe to try. Though if I were to hazard a guess, perhaps it’s because he doesn’t wish to lose any more of his cutlery to combat.”
He lets out a deep laugh at my scowl, moving to pluck a small gladius with a smooth pommel and an intricately jeweled hiltfrom where it hangs on the wall behind me. Light and practical with a subtle beauty.
“Or…” he says slowly, twirling the blade with practiced ease. “Perhaps His Majesty doesn’t wish you to be in danger during your stay in Letum.”
A mangled sound of fury echoes in the back of my throat. “Unless I step on the wrong beach,” I mutter, meeting Sam’s gaze in challenge.
He only chuckles lightly with another irreverent shrug and hands me the sword. I take it, my brow knitting together as I examine Sam and realize I don’t understand the man at all. Despite his clear strength, his demeanor is calm—almost gentle. Unlike the king whose presence spikes beneath my skin like volts of electricity, Sam’s is steady. Like a deep breath.
How can such a benevolent man serve such a violent leader? How can someone who won’t raise a hand in violence, even to defend himself, bow before a king who slaughters innocent children and cuts out the tongues of his servants?
“You aren’t even going to try and defend your king?”
Sam laughs openly, a warm, loud sound. “Defending the king is alsonotin my job description.” He hands me a sheath for the sword. “Try that on and make sure it’s comfortable. Perhaps if we have time later, I can teach you a few of the basics. Suffice to say, you should stab with the pointy end. Which shouldn’t be a problem, as you seem to possess a natural inclination for sharp things.”
I buckle the scabbard to my hip with an indignant huff, biting my lip hard enough to keep from blurting out how familiar I am with swordsmanship. Years alone on the run afforded me a lot of time to practice with an assortment of weapons and fighting techniques, and I used the time well. Well enough that if the military ever came looking to trap me in one of their camps again, I’d be able to fight my way out.
Perhaps the king means to grant me a false sense of security by providing me a weapon. Or perhaps he’s as sick as he appears and enjoys his prey putting up a bit of a fight. It was in his eyes both times I held his life in my hands—no matter my bluster, he doesn’t truly think I’m capable of killing him. People always see a pretty face and assume a pretty soul lives beneath it. Most are dead before they can realize their mistake; before they understand that beauty is often far deadlier than overt ugliness.
Sam gives me a cheeky grin, stepping back to admire the fit of the belt. “The forks may yet survive to see another meal.”
I roll my eyes, just as the door disappears once more and Marina bustles in, arms laden with a pile of fabric and what appears to be a hairbrush. Without preamble, she shoves the bundle into my arms and then begins gesturing furiously to Sam.
The fabric turns out to be a beautiful black cloak and another pair of gloves similar to the ones I’d left in the bathroom. The inside of the cloak is lined with lush velvet, the hem intricately stitched with shining gold thread in patterns reflecting the constellations of the Letum sky.
