“Justus!” Dante screeches once he reaches the vault room, hand still wrapped around his dagger’s hilt.
Justus ambles out of the vault where Meriam sits erect in her throne, fingers wound loosely around the armrest, pink eyes steady on me. “Yes, Maezza?”
My grandfather’s blue gaze drifts over my shackled arms before unhurriedly rising to Lastra. Will he order him to release me? Would Lastra abide or would he wait for his king’s approval?
Cato, who’s been walking alongside me since we left my cell, takes a step nearer, and although I keep my attention on Dante, out of the corner of my eye, I spy the white-haired sergeant graze the pommel of his sword.
“Is your wife ready, Rossi?”
“She is, Your Majesty.” Justus gestures for Dante to pass ahead of him, but Dante stops walking and pivots, blue eye sparking. “Lastra, Cato, bring my inkwell closer.”
That I refer to myself as an inanimate object is one thing; that he refers to me that way is quite another.
Cato slides his hand around my bicep just as Lastra, only too happily, shoves me forward. The sergeant growls at his fellow soldier, “I’ve got her.”
I try to work my fingers out of the Faerie vines, but with every hand contortion, the vine bites harder into my skin. As we pass the obsidian panel upon which Justus drew his sigil, my heart screams for me to run toward it, to get out. But my fucking wrists are fucking bound!
Meriam drums her fingers against the shiny gold. “My granddaughter cannot sit for hours with her hands bound behind her back or her veins will run dry.”
I stare at Justus but he doesn’t stare back. His gaze is focused on the green-eyed soldier. “My wife gave you a command, Soldati.”
“I take my commands from the king.”
Dante tips his head a tad higher. “Her hands stay where they are, Rossi.”
“Your Majesty, be reasonable.” Meriam’s voice sounds hoarse from disuse.
“The last time Fallon’s hands were unbound, she removed my eye.” Dante’s reason for binding my hands should reassure me—after all, it means that he’s none the wiser about what Meriam has done—nevertheless, I’m not reassured.
Until the vault doors shut and Justus hands me his sword, I will not be reassured. I will remain a mess of crackling nerves and hasty heartbeats.
Meriam’s pink eyes cut a path beyond Justus and Dante toward me before closing. “Circle the vines with blood, darling, and they will fall off.”
I all but choke on my next inhale. Before a rattling cough can give away Meriam’s words, I press my lips shut and breathe through my nose. Although I feel Cato’s stare on my cheek, I keep my eyes facing forward and resume tugging on my restraints, but this time, to break skin.
“What was that, Meriam?” Dante’s fingers flex so hard around the hilt of his dagger that it swells the veins beneath his brown skin.
“I was invoking the Cauldron, Maezza. Asking it to guide me during our lesson.” Her lids reel up, and she fastens her gaze to Dante’s.
“Is that what she said, Justus?” Dante shifts on his boots, and although his spurs’ slow twirl makes little noise, it’s all I can hear, the same way the bulging blood vessels on the back of his hand are all I can see.
I rub my wrists until my skin stings and heats, and the vines become slippery with blood. I pull one wrist up then drive it down and do the same with the other, coating the restraints with my blood, praying it will shear through Lastra’s magic.
“Grip your sword, husband. I do not like the look in that man’s eye.” Meriam’s quiet murmur reaches my thudding eardrums.
It must also reach my grandfather’s because his palm settles on the ruby pommel of his sword. “I’m afraid my knowledge of Shabbin is still rather rudimenta—”
Just as one loop of vine snaps, Dante rams the blade of his dagger through my grandfather’s abdomen. Meriam screams, her hand crawling up her throat to her mouth. The soldiers all flock to their king, leaving me unattended.
I stare at the wall and take a step toward it, but then my eyes go to Justus. His mouth is still parted, his eyes still open, his throat still bobbing with swallows. Beyond him, Meriam is raising a shaky hand to her forehead.
“Ruh . . .!” A ragged gulp replaces the ‘n’ as Dante raises his arm, hefting Justus off the ground.
I inch toward the wall just as Dante twists the blade in Justus’s gut. My grandfather spasms, his arm jerking upward before his fingers fall open around his sword. The rubies gleam as the iron weapon falls to the floor and skids in my direction. When it stops mere feet away from me, I understand that it was no spasm that drove his arm up.
“Is it you this time or is it your traitorous son again?” With his free hand, Dante gushes water into my grandfather’s face. He blinks at the intensity that springs from his fingers.
I take great joy in watching Dante suck in a breath as he realizes his lack of iron immunity.
