She looked around again, to make sure she wasn’t being watched. The sun-drenched street was empty, which she suspected was by happenstance rather than design. When she’d occupied the cottage, Sammael had decreed that no one venture near without his consent. He’d done this out of consideration for her, lest she glimpse a horned, forked-tongue beast and dissolve into a puddle of silk-encrusted terror. But while such a sight might have appalled the girl she’d once been, the woman she’d become wouldn’t blink twice at it. For she was the rising Queen of Darkness, and minions of the realm posed no threat to her. She pitied them, for she had what they did not: a form of true beauty, one she did not have to borrow or shapeshift to possess.
Even Sammael’s form didn’t truly belong to him. Why he’d decided to anoint himself with hair as red as the setting sun, given the choice, was a mystery. It was as unattractive as Katerina’s wild mane, like the demon himself. He lacked imagination, and vision, and most of all, he was not the one the Darkness favored. That was Elena, and if her gift was sometimes a burden, it was one she would willingly bear.
What she wouldn’t bear—what she couldn’t—was the thought of losing her Shadow. And perhaps this venture would provide a way to get him back again.
The wind gusted again, carrying with it a peculiar scent: musty and dank, as if she stood not in the Underworld, but truly belowground. She had the strangest sense that bars enclosed her, engraved with runes to keep her gifts at bay; but she stood on a wind-swept street, free to go where she chose. Unless Sammael had somehow trapped her spirit here, too…
Perhaps he had. Perhaps that was why he felt free to leave her and go about his peculiar, private business, since he had already circumscribed her freedom. Maybe his newest machination decreed not that no one could come near her, but that she could approach no one without his permission, in astral form or otherwise.
The thought that he’d imprisoned her in soul as well as body set her feet moving, down the cobblestones and toward the market square where he’d created the replica of Kalach. She half-expected to hit a barrier at the street’s end, but no; she rounded the corner without impediment and continued walking, the musty, fetid stench filling her nostrils as she went.
At the next corner, Elena paused and narrowed her eyes. The last time Sammael had taken her this way, when he’d given her a tour of the streets around the palace, this block had been filled with cheerful, red-roofed cottages much like the one he’d built for her. Now, though, it was an industrial district, dotted with sprawling warehouses. Hunched demons clad in dusty rags scurried in and out, hauling wheelbarrows filled with bottles. One of them caught sight of Elena and began to chitter like an alarmed insect, poking its compatriots with a long, red-clawed forefinger. The others gaped, then bent to their work with alacrity, hauling the wheelbarrows inside and slamming the doors behind them.
Irritation stabbed at her: why had they run? Had Sammael forbidden them to speak with her? And was this what the streets of his realm had looked like all along, underneath the glamour he’d cast? Why did he think she needed to be coddled in order to be happy? Why could no one see her as the powerful, dangerous creature she’d become?
After all, she no longer even needed a body to move about the world.
Perhaps these scrabbling minions feared her; that must be it. She was tempted to bang on the metal doors behind which they’d disappeared and demand answers. But the agitation that had possessed her earlier churned even more strongly now. Who knew how long this newfound freedom would last? She had to go, she had to escape, she had to see?—
Bracing herself against the driving wind, Elena quickened her pace. Head down, she hurried past the warehouses and down one street after another. It was midday, and the sun baked through her diaphanous dress and heated her see-through skin, as if boiling her very blood. She needed a cold drink; surely that would calm the torrent of unrest inside her.
It seemed a terrible inconvenience that, even in astral form, she still had to contend with petty bodily needs. For all she knew, the lemonade would pour straight through her, soaking the street below. But she craved it, with an intensity that brooked no question. She was empty inside, and she thirsted, and she must be satisfied.
One of the stalls in the market sold lavender lemonade; Sammael had brought her a tumbler of it once, icy and sweet, with a refreshing sprig of purple grave-mint. She would go there, and they would serve her though she had no money, for she belonged to Sammael. And if they failed to fulfill her every wish, why then, she welcomed the pleasure of seeing the Venom of God lop off their heads.
Sweat plastered her hair to her cheeks as she rounded the final corner and stopped dead, chest heaving. Where the market should be was a vacant lot, deserted save for the dried leaves that swept through it. Every stall, every stand, was gone.
Sammael had done this, out of revenge. He had taken her from her home, he had imprisoned her, and now he had taken her home away from her.
Fury burned through Elena, scorching through her veins. Wave after wave of heat washed over her, and thirst raked its way down her throat. Was she always to be hollow, coveting what she could not have? Were her needs never to be sated?
She stood in the street and howled, scoring her dress with her fingernails in protest. It did not even give her the satisfaction of ripping, of course, as it was not truly there. Infuriated, she sucked in air to scream again, and the mildewy scent that had pursued her from the palace filled her lungs. She fell to her knees, choking and spitting to rid herself of the taste.
And then the street around her whirled. Spun. Faded.
Gone were the dessicated leaves and abandoned lot, the sky with its merciless dual suns, and the relentless wind. Instead, she stood in a dark, damp corridor. One wall held torches; the other was studded with cells, their bars engraved with the runes she’d envisioned. And somewhere in this hellscape was her Shadow. His essence pulled her onward, even stunted by the enchantments that restrained his true self.
Was this why she hadn’t been able to sense his presence? Because he’d been imprisoned and locked away? Who would dare to do such a thing?
Elena glanced down at herself, curiosity penetrating her rage. Only an outline of her body appeared in the gloom: the shimmer of her wedding gown, its hem hovering several inches above the floor; the gleam of her fingers as she trailed them through the air. She was here, but not here, much as she’d been in the streets of Sammael’s realm.
She was aboveground.
Somehow, the Darkness had gifted her this moment, however partial her presence, and she did not intend to waste it. If Niko was indeed here, then she would find him and set him free. He would be grateful, and he would worship her as he should, and then she would take him home again.
But first, she would feed. She would punish those who had done this to her Shadow, and together they would look upon the destruction she had wreaked. Then, he would appreciate her true power. He would know she was no fainting damsel, nor a selfish instrument of the Darkness who thought only of herself. He would see the sacrifices she had made in his name, and they would paint themselves in the blood of their enemies, united in purpose at last.
Decided, she cocked her head, picking out the sound of voices, then drifted down the corridor. Her feet didn’t touch the floor, and she made no sound as she passed, but even still, the wretches in the cells glanced up and scampered away, like rats exposed to bright light. They knew danger when they saw it, Elena decided, and a smile lifted her lips. It was good to be recognized.
Beyond the corridor lay a warren of rooms from which the fumes of drink wafted. The door was half-cracked, and Elena drifted through, finding herself in a small, low-ceilinged space with a round table. Five men sat around it, each holding a hand of cards. A half-empty jug of medovukha served as the centerpiece, and as Elena watched, a hulking man with a scraggly black beard gulped from his tankard.
“Tomorrow they hang!” he cried, and the others echoed him. “Five to one the black-haired bastard breaks first to save his hell-fox bitch.”
Fury broke over Elena anew. They were talking about Niko and Katerina; they must be. Tomorrow they hang? Wherever she was, were these fools about to kill her Shadow? Was this oaf offering stakes on Niko’s death?
He would die first, she decided, moving further into the room. And painfully.
The man slammed his tankard down on the table, grinning at his companions. “Stavka. Ante up, eh? Who’s in?”
