He smiles, leans in, and whispers, “I know.” She gasps a laugh and he smirks. “But I’m glad you think so. Because you, Astrid, are exceptional. And I find I have very little interest existing in a world that you’re not in.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Silence hangs between them as his words burrow inside her and settle, right next to her rapidly beating heart. She grips his tunic, tugging him into her, and he holds her tighter against him, his hand now grasping her nape. She aches for him. Actually aches.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be leaving your room anytime soon,” he says.
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
His fingers clench at her waist, digging into her back. Their bodies are flush against each other, every part of them touching, and yet they’re not nearly close enough. Right now, she can’t think of anything she could want more than to have him stay, to have his weight on top of her. She grips his hair, lifts onto her toes. His lips are barely on hers when there’s a knock at the door. It opens a crack and they freeze.
“Bastet, Your Highness,” Fionn announces. A frustrated growl bursts from Zryan, and before Fionn can fully open the door, he kisses her—quick and hard. “Try and stay out of trouble, Dimples.”
Her lips part, words lost as he Teleports out, Bastet entering to find her leaning heavily against her desk.
ASTRID. He bounds over. WHAT HAS HAPPENED?
She stands motionless, reeling, unable to explain to Bastet the problem that is Zryan.
WELL, YOU WOODEN-HEADED WITCH, DID IT WORK?
That brings her back to her senses. She hasn’t even checked. Whatever mess they got themselves in tonight, whatever Zryan said to her, she and Skylar were successful with something at least: placing the trackers on those carriages. And while it might be nowhere near enough, it’s something.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” She pats Bastet on the flank, then opens the doors of her wardrobe and looks at the large map spread across the base, various small objects—each linked to a tracker—laid out on top of it. They were on the warrens when she left, and now they’re on the road leading out of the south-eastern gates of the boundary walls. She smiles, despite everything.
“It’s working.”
47Skylar
Skylar had been totally prepared to refuse to attend the Mourning Feast—was, in fact, relishing the idea of using her power against anyone sent to escort her to the gardens. About ten minutes ago, she changed her mind. Because, she realized, Astrid would go. Astrid, who had been preparing since birth for the duel, would be expected to uphold tradition. And she didn’t want Astrid facing it alone.
So here she is. Sitting next to Astrid at the high table, one empty chair between them, underneath a darkening starry sky. Black and white flowers make up the centerpieces, and dark green ivy weaves down the middle of tables that stretch into the distance of the walled gardens. Above them are hundreds of floating glass lights, while on the tables, candlelight flickers. There’s a cellist, playing hauntingly beautiful music near the entrance. Not an Acoustic, of course—because they’ve taken all of them, haven’t they?
A waiter, carrying a tray of Vatran delicacies, comes over to Skylar, holding out the offering of spiced fruit and cheese. He’s wearing the Vatran red livery, and the tray he carries is gold. No doubt they’d wanted her to wear the royal colors this evening, but she’s gone for a halter neck of black with silver glitter, cut high above her midriff, with loose matching pants. Black, because it suits her, and tiny silver stars, because it made her think of Astrid.
“Can I offer you an appetizer?” the waiter asks, his voice surprisingly high.
She stares up at him. “I’m not all that hungry, thanks.” Sheishungry, but she doesn’t think she can eat tonight. And she doesn’t wantto create any illusion that she is condoning this tradition, a feast to celebrate something that ought to be abhorred.
The waiter bows, but his tray trembles as he backs away. Afraid of her, like the rest of them.
The tables are filling up—courtiers who have paid a small fortune, no doubt. The seat in between her and Astrid remains empty, though, as do those on either side of them. Down the end of Astrid’s side of the table sits Gwen, who keeps glancing over, as if checking that Skylar isn’t going to stab Astrid’s hand with a fork or something. Bjorn looms behind her, a threatening presence, and Skylar knows Bastet is here, too, somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Maybe she should have brought Kaida, to play with Bastet one final time—but she’d figured the little dragon was safer with Mjolnir.
She looks at Astrid again, thinking she ought to say something, but Astrid is scanning the gathering guests. It doesn’t take a genius to guess who she’s looking for. And Skylar feels almost relieved by the fact that she’s distracted—because wouldn’t having a conversation with her make things harder?
There is plenty theycouldtalk about, of course. Like the fact that Zryan is a fucking rebel, for instance. Or she could ask whether the trackers have worked—though what’s the point? She’s not sure she cares all that much about where the Heart is now. Every time she thinks of the warrens two nights ago, her mind is focused more on the pulsing shadows that gave her the chance to escape. The voice in her head—and the familiarity of it.
She thinks she’s realized why it felt familiar. There was a voice like that on the island—smoke curling around her mind. Saying the same thing.
Run.
But if that means what she thinks it does, then that would mean a lunar dragon was there that night. And Mjolnir assured her that no dragons are missing from the island—unless he’s lying. But if she can’t trust him, she can’t trust anyone. Actually, scrap that. She can’t trust anyone anyway—but she does believe him. Which means it can’t have been a dragon, can it? But if not a dragon, then what? Or who?
She has met someone else, after all, who could command shadows.
You’re not Blooded. So what are you?
She hasn’t told anyone about that encounter—hasn’t had cause to think of it in weeks. But the memory of his eyes, dark and focused on hers, comes back to her now. The way his shadows had held her in place, caressing her skin. His mind, probing hers. But there’s no way he could have been at the warrens, surely? The sheer coincidence of it.
Astrid catches Skylar’s eye and leans across the empty space to say something to her, a slight crease pulling her forehead. She looks beautiful tonight, in her gown of white. She always looks beautiful, Skylar supposes, but it’s like there is a soft glow surrounding her, illuminating her pale face in the candlelight. Though maybe that’s just her conscience, holding a spotlight over Astrid, refusing to let her forget what tomorrow will bring.
