“You forget that the history books are written by the victors, Dante Regio.” The words Lore once told me groove Dante’s brow. “Tell me, did he also ingest a sealed vial of Meriam’s blood to shit out and slather on his little weapon?”
“That would’ve been rather pointless since the Sky Kingdom blocks any form of magic other than the shifters’, right?”
Thank the great Cauldron and whoever enchanted Lore’s realm. My relief is so intense that, after deserting me, blood gushes back into my organs, fortifying both my limbs and morale.
“His mission was to weaken Ríhbiadh, and he succeeded.” Dante’s gruff tone chafes my mood. “There are four more crows to stake and vials of Meriam’s blood circulating through Luce, freely given to soldiers and civilians alike.”
His threat should irk me, but I’m too busy rejoicing that my mate hasn’t lost his humanity to give a serpent’s ass.
“By the time we emerge from our stronghold, the shifters will be an extinct race of supernaturals.”
He says I overestimate the Crows. Well, he evidently underestimates him. “I never imagined you’d be the type of man to send your best friend to slaughter.”
A nerve flutters his temple. “Gabriele volunteered for this mission.”
Keeping my tone placid, I say, “You didn’t stop him, Dante, which makes you responsible for his death.”
“They’ve yet to kill him.”
“Do you expect him to walk out of the Sky Kingdom alive?” I ask just as Bronwen’s prophecy zips through my mind like a thieving sprite:You will not die at our hands, Gabriele; you will die at the hands of your Faerie general.I shut out her voice. She may see the future and attempt to influence it but she cannot possibly control it.
“Knowing those savages, no.”
“Then his death is on you.”
His bandaged hand shoots up and cinches my neck, his grip as bruising as the night he dragged me into this obsidian pit. “Tart is not a good look on you, Fal.”
A crazed smile digs into my unwashed cheeks. Gods, I must be an appalling sight. A shame Faeries cannot die of fright.
“I’ll make sure—to cultivate it,” I wheeze out.
His fingers tighten.
“Planning on—murdering me—next?”
He lifts me, his thumb digging into my carotid. “I did not. Murder. Gabriele.”
“Maezza, please. We’ve no healer down here.” Cato’s tone is fraught with worry. Could he actually be concerned about my well-being, or is he trying to remind Dante to go easy on the female whose blood he plans on exploiting?
Dante’s fingers spring open and air races down my bruised throat, burning like fire. I clutch my neck and massage the abused skin, my eyes so full of spite that Dante falls back a step. Unless he falls back because he doesn’t trust himself not to squeeze the life out of me.
“You’re lucky that I’ve use for you,” he spits out.
He and I evidently have a very different definition of luck.
“Now, pick up the pace!” He whirls around and pounds into the darkness.
Several minutes trickle by and we’re still marching like ants down the narrow tunnel. Between the airless darkness, the nearness of the walls, and my aching throat, my lungs spasm.
As I rub my chest, attempting to ease the discomfort, I murmur, “I thought you’d be in Shabbe.”
Cato’s gaze journeys over my profile, lingering on the reddened marks stamped around my throat. “I swore an oath to the Lucin crown.”
By oath, does he mean he struck a bargain? And if so, was it with Justus or with Dante? Are these men holding him captive down here?
“It’s a great honor to serve the king. It’ll be an ever greater honor to serve his queen.” Although low, his voice seems to resonate between the dark walls.
“Eponine of Nebba is rather lovely.” And crafty . . . I suppose I deserved her deceptive answer. After all, I did corner her into confessing Meriam’s whereabouts. Had I been her, I would’ve led me astray as well.
