PROLOGUE
The air was thick with the scent of decay. It seemed to shiver, recoil as King Warwick strode down the dank tunnel. He carried a torch to scatter the dark. The limitations of his human eyes were vexing indeed.
Still, he walked as though he stood seven feet tall, a crown of bone on his head and a blade at his hip.
The king slowed as he approached his destination, a vast circular chamber drowned in shadow. He paused at the yawning entrance. Then, out of the abyss, a single quavering word.
“H-hello?”
Warwick stepped into the sanctum and touched his torch to the channel of oil set into the wall. It ignited, the flames following its path around the circumference of the room. Rivers of script scaled the stone walls, spiraling toward the cavernous ceiling. Thousands of years of history were entombed here, but the king had no interest in history. His sights were set on the future, on his divine right to dominate two worlds, and the path to that future was crumpled on the floor before him.
“Good evening, little weaver,” Warwick said.
The girl had barely reached maturity. Her cheeks were still round beneath her bruises. Her robes may have once been white but were now stained with blood and filth. She struggled to raise herself into a sitting position, her shackles clanking dully.
One of her eyes was swollen shut, purple and bulbous. The other was already filling with tears.
Satisfaction knifed through Warwick. He would never tire of that look. The haunted, guttering gaze of a prisoner inches from breaking.
“Are you prepared to tell me where the weavers are hiding the dreambreaker?”
The girl looked down and away, her matted blond hair curtaining her face. Warwick cast his torch aside. It skidded across the floor and hit the wall with a crack, drawing a flinch from his prisoner. He started toward her from the edge of the room at a leisurely pace, allowing her fear to simmer.
“I grow weary, little weaver,” Warwick murmured as he arrived before her.
That was a lie. Her spirit was an unprecedented challenge but a welcome one. It had been a year since he had indulged this way. His last interrogation had been in another world, his victim born not of flesh and bone, but of a nightmare.
“I must admit, however, I am intrigued.”
Warwick crouched before the girl and brushed a stiff lock of hair from her face. She recoiled from his touch, refusing eye contact. This close, he could see the layers of healing cuts and bruises beneath the fresh wounds.
“You weavers, so obsessed with the separation of the Wake and the Reverie.” His lip curled. “Insular fools.”
The girl snapped her working eye to his, bloodshot and blazing.
“The Boundary must never fall,” she rasped. “Too much contact between the worlds could unravel the fabric of reality.”
“Yet weavers walk between worlds at their leisure.”
“That’s different,” she snapped. “Unlike you, we close every door we open.”
“Unlike me,” Warwick repeated under his breath. “And what am I, little weaver?”
The girl lifted her chin. Her split lip quivered, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.
“You’re a mistake, an abomination. The night terror who wormed into the waking world and tried to claim it as his own.”
She tried to spit at him, but days without water worked against her.
“So the story goes,” Warwick acknowledged. “Indeed, walking between worlds is an uncommon gift. Tell me then, if you’re so against anyone but your own kind crossing the Boundary, why are you protecting a child with the same ability?”
“We weren’t. We
were studying her, and I would rather her go free than let you get your filthy hands on her.”
Warwick considered her with a tilted head. “Go free?”
Confusion struck the blistering hatred from her face. Then it melted into horror.
“Oh gods,” she breathed.
“You lost the child.”
“No, we—”
“You fool, you should have known better than to try to contain her. She is more powerful than you can fathom.”
Warwick drew the slender skysteel blade at his side. The black metal gleamed viciously in the ring of fire around them. The girl shrank back, curling in on herself like a starving rabbit. He gripped her by the hair and rose, forcing her to her knees.
“You’re of no use to me, then,” Warwick said dispassionately.
“No! Wait, please! I have information!”
The king cocked a brow, unmoved.
“Please, p-please,” she sobbed, squirming in his iron grip. “I don’t know where the dreambreaker is, but I know who she’s with.” When Warwick did not respond, she continued, the words tumbling out of her like boulders down a mountainside. “One of our own, a traitor, left a year ago. She stole the child and hid her away. We can’t touch either of them.”
“Why?”
“Because the traitor is Queen Ila Enevoldson of Galesborough.”
Bone-deep silence in the sanctum, buffered only by the whispering breath of the flames and the sniveling of the girl at his feet. Warwick stared straight through her. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his knife.
Then he smiled like the curve of a scythe.
“The Vaettir queen, a rogue weaver.” A laugh burst from his chest. Warwick flipped the blade in his hand. The girl swallowed, bruised throat rippling. “Thank you for your cooperation, little weaver. You’ve been most entertaining.”
The girl opened her mouth to scream, but he had already forced her head back and slashed her neck. By the time she hit the flagstones, Warwick was halfway across the sanctum. The delicious sound of her drowning in her own blood followed him, but for once, he did not stop to savor it.
There was much work to be done.
PART ONE
STEEL AND SHADOW
1Ila
The solitary moon hunched over Galesborough as Ila cantered down the narrow, wooded path. She cracked the reins, urging her mount faster. Branches raked her skin and clothes as they whipped past.
“Raske, Ailo! Raske!”
Ailo whinnied, the sound nearly lost to the storm of riders in their wake. The forest, black and blue in the night, gave way to open land in an instant. Ila caught a glimpse of a star-strewn sky before a gasp was ripped from her.
She yanked the reins. Ailo reared and slammed down again. Pebbles skittered over a sheer cliff, plunging to the rapids below.
Ila swore, her eyes darting between the cliff and the forest. Panic sparked in her chest as the thunder of hooves drew nearer. She pulled her hood over her dyed hair as the Skysteel Guard shot out of the wood and screamed to a halt ten paces away. Their black armor was almost indigo in the moonlight. The crest of House Fallon, a wolf, snarled at her from their breastplates.
The captain whistled through his teeth. His men fanned out, backing Ila toward the edge of the cliff.
“Where is the child?” he shouted over the roar of the rapids. “We know you have her.”
Ila reached into her saddlebag and withdrew a box the size of her palm. Morthil had warded the box against all manner of nightmares at her request; it would only open at her command, and the child inside would be safe.
For now.
Blades scraped from scabbards. The captain spoke again, louder this time.
“In the name of King Warwick of Wolfhelm, I order you to take us to the child.”
Ila ignored him, curling the silver box to her breast. A single pulse rippled through the metal, reverberating in her bones. A wordless farewell from the soul inside.
“Sol liv hjent warren, Saoirse,” Ila breathed.
Light erupted from her every pore, beaming through her heavy furs. The wind rose, threatening to blow back her cowl. The Skysteel Guard cried out in shock and terror, shielding their faces as the sky split open. The radiant white light of the Boundary between the Wake and the Reverie poured over them.
“Stop this, witch!”
Ila released the box with a scream of exertion. A thunderclap echoed as the portal swallowed it and slammed shut. The trees groaned as their trunks were bowed by the resulting shock wave. Uncanny stillness settled over the land. Ila slumped in her saddle.
Her hands were empty.
Saoirse was gone.
“Seize her!”
Ila scrambled off her mount, putting Ailo between her and the Skysteel Guard as they closed in. Her horse snorted and dug at the dirt as if sensing her next move. Ila retreated to the cusp of the cliff with her heart in her mouth.
The captain dismounted and approached on foot, one hand raised as if to calm her. There was no malice in his expression, only focus. He was just another man who believed he was on the right side of history.
Ila threw a glance over her shoulder. Her fur cloak fluttered over the edge of the cliff.
The captain froze.
“No! Stop!”
Ila fell backward, choking on a prayer.
Striking the water felt like hitting stone, yet somehow, she sank. Dye coiled from her hair, swirling in the freezing water like ribbons of blood. Her cloak dragged her toward the bottom of the river. It looked to be alive, furs rippling in the moonlight that lanced through the waves. She blinked sluggishly, sending columns of pinprick
bubbles skyward.
It was only when her lungs began to burn that fear seared away her shock. Ila fumbled with the clasp of her cloak and wriggled free but forced herself not to surface.
A single thought blazed in her mind like an iron brand.
The Skysteel Guard must think me dead.
Numbness crept in, swift and lethal. Ila let the current take her.
The river trundled on ruthlessly. When her thoughts began to muddy and her limbs lost feeling, she knew the cold would take her before her enemies did.
Drawing on the last shreds of her strength, she broke the surface and swam against the pull of the river. She dragged herself ashore on her stomach, shuddering and retching in the watery pebbles. As she struggled to her knees and raised her head, she was greeted by a puff of warm, musky air and a velvety snout.
“Ailo,” she gasped, reaching for her horse. “How did you find me?”
Ailo whickered, nuzzling her affectionately. Ila grabbed a fistful of his ivory mane and pulled herself up, silt shifting beneath her boots.
“Takja, my friend.”
The river had dumped Ila on a beach strewn with tree boughs and other natural debris. A swathe of snowcapped pines farther inland. Through them, Ila glimpsed the first shreds of honeyed daylight.
Hot tears pricked her eyes.
Day was breaking here in the Wake, which meant night would be settling over the Reverie. The two realms had existed in tandem since the dawn of time, separated by the Boundary and the ignorance of the humans in the Wake.
At least, they were supposed to be.
Focus.
Teeth chattering, Ila stripped off her stiff clothes and dressed in fresh ones from her saddlebag. The river had washed the dark dye from her hair to reveal her true white blond. She braided the drenched locks as she scanned the area. They appeared to be alone, but there was only one way to be certain.
Bracing herself against Ailo, Ila called on her weaver sight.
The pulse of the Wake rushed to fill her.
A glorious golden tapestry unfurled, blanketing the trees, the soil, the sky, and the river. Individual lives were embers threaded into the ever-shifting fabric. The land around Ila was quiet, disturbed only by the faint presence of a doe grazing nearby and the birds nestled in the trees. If she extended herself, she could detect the animals sleeping the winter away underground.
Ila blinked away her weaver sight, allowing the mundane shell of the world to bleed back into view.
No sign of the Skysteel Guard. More importantly, no sign of the weavers. She had
narrowly evaded the white-clad priestesses the night before, but it was they who instilled persistence in her. They would not rest until they found the dreambreaker and the traitor who stole her.
Ila bit her lip to stifle a sob.
It would be a fortnight before she could gather the strength to open another portal to the Reverie and retrieve Saoirse. She was expected in Wolfhelm in nine days. Once she entered the kingdom, there would be no turning back. No one would be able to open the box without the password, but Saoirse could not survive inside forever.
Think, dasak. Think.
Ailo snorted as Ila spun and began to rummage through her saddlebag. She gathered flint, steel, charcoal, and a scrap of parchment. Kneeling, she spread the paper on her thighs and scrawled a note in her mother tongue.
“Hoste, guide me,” Ila prayed as she took the flint and steel in hand. Both bore the silver aura of the Reverie. They stood in stark contrast to the buttery glow of the Wake. “Askar valem, Morthil.”
Ila struck the flint. Sparks flew, peppering the parchment and chewing rapid holes in it. Her eyes watered as the flames belched white smoke. The parchment dissolved from the Wake, taking her words with it to the Reverie.
Not even ashes remained.
Hoste, protect us, Ila thought as she stowed her belongings again. The rising golden sun kissed the side of her face as she mounted Ailo. She turned south toward Wolfhelm, toward a different kind of battle.
Protect her.
2Wren
The air blistered with salt and anticipation. Wren kept her eyes peeled despite the sting, scanning the shores of the Evendark Sea from her clifftop perch as another toxic black wave slammed aground.
The beach had been quiet all night, but if her source was telling the truth, her target would arrive soon. She was banking on his honesty. Only the foolish or very brave lied to nightmares, and only those with a death wish lied to the Hand of the Para.
The faintest rumble grazed her pointed ears. She inhaled through her nose.
There.
Fresh water and fertile earth. The scent of a mortal dream being—a kip. Wren drew her skysteel blades with a ringing hiss and rose. Strands of her dark hair wriggled from their braid, whispering against her skin as she waited with predatory stillness. Far above, the three gemstone Reverie moons peered out from behind towering red and violet nebulas.
Then four kips on horseback burst into view, cantering down the waterline.
Wren stepped off the edge of the cliff.
She relished the fall, eyes closed and lips parted. Two heartbeats came and went before she snapped her wings open. Airwaves rolled beneath her charcoal feathers as she sailed to the ground, landing twenty paces ahead of the riders.
The kips yanked their reins and skidded to a halt. Wren studied them in the light of the moons. All male, their faces obscured by hoods. One rode a horse with a split face ending in two upturned snouts, the by-product of some strange dream.
Three of the kips were armed with swords. The other had a longbow slung across his back.
Fear clung to them.
“Good somnia, gentleman,” Wren called over the rush of the sea.
“We’re just passing through,” one of the kips shouted back. “We’re not looking for trouble.”
“I’ve been waiting for you, Finnian.” Wren folded her wings flush against her back and gave her blades a twirl. The kips shifted in their saddles. She could hear the rapid patter of their hearts over the roar of the sea. “I am not in the mood for games.”
Finnian removed his hood, staring her down with bitter resolve. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword.
Too slow.
Wren let a blade fly, nailing the kip to his left between the eyes. He tumbled from his mount and landed with a crunch on the black sand. His horse screamed and bolted.
Wren twisted out of its path, sending another knife flying at a kip as he drew his sword. It struck him in the neck, and he went down. The archer nocked an arrow, aimed, and fired. He was fast, but not fast enough.
They never were.
Wren dodged the arrow, drawing one of the daggers strapped to her thigh. It struck the archer before he could fire again. He fell with a fractured cry and did not move. Para Warwick had ordered Wren to make their deaths hurt, but days on the road had filled her bones with a persistent ache. She was not keen to draw this out.
Still astride his horse, Finnian stared at the bodies of his comrades. His eyes flashed to hers. Wren raised a brow. He drew his sword. Faint red moonlight glanced off the metal as he dismounted and sank into a fighting stance.
“What’s the rebellion after, Finnian?” Wren asked as if nothing had happened.
The kip lifted his chin. Defiant, reckless, and all too mortal.
“I told you, we were just passing through.”
“Answer honestly
and I’ll give you a quick death.” Wren examined her nails. They were closer to talons, really. Dark as flint and tough as iron. “Or I can bring you back to Caer Sidi and you’ll suffer at the hands of Bloodreaper; I don’t particularly care.”
A brittle laugh from Finnian. “You’d love nothing more than to slit my throat, you fucking ’mare.”
“You overestimate your importance.” She flicked her braid over her shoulder. It dusted the small of her back. “We’ve seen a rise in activity from the rebellion lately. Parties riding out in every direction, like they’re looking for something. Care to tell me what that is?”
“You know I’m not going to talk, Nightstrider.”
Her teeth gnashed together at the sound of that name. She once wore it like a badge of honor, the title her creator, Para Warwick, had bestowed on her the night of her manifestation.
Now she wore it like a noose.
“If you’re going to kill me, you may as well get it over with.” His words did not match his rioting pulse. “The rebellion lives.”
Wren rolled her eyes. She’d had about enough of these sanctimonious rebels. They thought they were freeing the Reverie from the clutches of a tyrant, but they only brought chaos and destruction on themselves and those caught in their path.
“You make your lives infinitely more difficult,” she said.
“We won’t bow to a leader who kills and enslaves kips and luminae for sport,” Finnian spat. “I’ll never talk.”
“Fine,” Wren muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”
Finnian flew at her with a roar, cranking his sword back to swing. The blade whistled over her head as she ducked. She darted away on the balls of her feet, tapping him on the shoulder when she came up behind him. He whipped around, panting, and lunged again. Wren sidestepped him easily.
She wondered if this was what dancing felt like.
Finnian made another brazen charge at her. He had left his torso unprotected, sloppy in his desperation. Elongating, Wren drove her heel into his sternum.
Crack.
Finnian flew back, body and blade skidding across the beach. He landed on his back with his arms and legs splayed. He did not try to get up or retrieve his sword, which was mere inches away.
Wren prowled toward the rebel, drawing her final blade. His breath rattled through his shattered rib cage. She pressed her boot to his chest. He let out a scream that could shake rain from the sky.
“Tell me what the rebellion is after.” She leaned down, applying more pressure through her sole. “Tell me!”
Finnian coughed fiercely, and her stomach sank. He would no doubt bleed to death from the inside before they made it back to Caer Sidi. She had forgotten how fragile kips were—perhaps she was spending too much time around vexes. Mortal though they were, the sundry bad dreams were still tougher than the average kip.
Wren took her boot off his caved-in chest. A wheeze bled from Finnian as she straightened her leather jacket with a tug and raised her knife overhead.
“Last words?” she asked flatly.
Finnian let out an agonized laugh. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
“Something funny?”
“You.” He grinned, exposing stained red teeth. “I expected more from the infamous Nightstrider.” Finnian dissolved into another hacking fit, spitting up his guts. Her lip curled as gore speckled her boots. “They say you’re heartless, but here you are, taking my last words like a fucking monk.”
“Not a monk.”
Wren plunged her blade into his heart, burying it to the hilt.
Finnian let out a gurgling screech. His blood drowned her hands. She yanked the knife out and wiped it on his tunic. His eyes were glassy and as round as the moons. His heart stilled.
The scalding waters of the Evendark Sea crashed to the shore as Wren rose, sheathing her blade again.
“A nightmare.”
***
The journey back to Caer Sidi took three days. The red, white, and violet moons were already on the rise by the time Wren spotted the castle. From above, it looked like a miniature she could crush between her thumb and forefinger.
Wren angled toward the ground, skimming the inky hands of the Tanglewood. The forest was punctured by the balding sore of Black Root. Even from the air, she could smell it. Smoke and piss and desperation. The mob of dark trees swallowed the landscape again.
Then Caer Sidi burst into full view.
The twelve towers stood like jagged teeth against the skyline, ringed by an impenetrable black wall. Vexes were mounted on the ramparts. A handful resembled creatures from human mythos—stories had a way of creeping into dreams—but most were unique. Some were there for the muscle, hulking beasts with arms like tree trunks and jaws of iron. Others leaned into the uncanny, creatures too tall to be kips, their mouths too wide to be human, and eyes that only blinked when you looked at them. They all pointedly pretended not to notice Wren as she sailed overhead.
She let the wind cradle her, lowering her into the deserted courtyard. Her feet were the first to taint the fresh snow settled there. Nothing moved but the torchlight that seemed to cower from the night.
Night. Thank the gods.
As night rose in the Reverie, day broke in the Wake. Para Warwick would be tending to his duties in that realm from the halls of the other Caer Sidi, the home to his children. Though Wren and many other nightmares were created by Para Warwick, they were not his offspring. They were closer to weapons with skin and teeth than children, each manifesting as a fully realized adult in a separate dream.
Wren sometimes wondered if Para Warwick treated his children as he did his nightmares, and if they were better or worse than he was.
The towering double doors across the courtyard peeled apart with a tired groan. Cold light spilled onto the snow. Wren retracted her wings and approached. Identical guards with the heads of rats saluted her as she crossed the threshold. She paid them no mind. She had never once heard them speak, nor did she care to.
The entry hall was deserted. The soaring walls were lined with portraits of past paras. Faceless apparitions, leathery demons with jaundiced eyes, a woman with slit cheeks and dozens of snakes coiling from her scalp that Wren had always been fond of.
Born of a phenomenon in the Wake known as sleep paralysis wherein the dreamer was suspended in terror between wakefulness and sleep,
paras only manifested once every few centuries. They were stronger than luminae, more vicious than nightmares, virtually unkillable and insatiable.
Few could remember a time a para did not lord over the Reverie, making the word para synonymous with king.
And none was more powerful than Para Warwick.
The doors slammed behind Wren with a reverberating thud. She continued forward, eyes ahead and steps sure. The buzz of rowdy conversation pricked her ears.
Must be another feast, she thought, bristling. What they were celebrating, she did not know. Probably the razing of another rebel camp to the ground.
Wren turned the corner at the end of the hall, moving away from the noise. She passed a handful of soldiers and servants, all of whom paused to offer curtsies, bows, and stiff salutes. She nodded at the soldiers and ignored the servants. Attention from the likes of her would only frighten them.
Eventually, she reached the spiral staircase that led to her chambers. Her pack weighed heavy on her shoulders as she ascended. By the time she reached her door, her legs were burning. She turned the knob and traipsed inside.
“You’re late.”
Ondine lounged on her stomach on the massive curtained bed, wearing nothing but a cream robe tied at her waist. Her coppery hair spilled down her back. Her hazel eyes were heavy-lidded. Wren tasted the air. Sure enough, the intoxicating scent of her drug of choice, lucidia, permeated the room.
“I’m tired, Ondine,” Wren said. She dropped her pack and started to unbuckle her leather armor. “And you’re high.”
“Barely.”
Wren shot her a withering look. Ondine smiled, slipping off the bed and padding over to the winged nightmare. Her full hips shifted beneath her silk robe. Wren swallowed as Ondine began to unbuckle her chest plate, pausing to caress the two-headed wolf stamped into the leather. Wren looked away and caught sight of their reflections in the standing mirror.
The two nightmares could not have been more different. Ondine was all milky curves. Wren was all sharp edges from her cheekbones to her blackened nails.
“Did you figure it out?”
Wren glanced down at Ondine as she removed the chest plate, setting it on the table with a muted thunk. She drew Wren into an embrace, ignoring the fact that she reeked from days of travel. Wren placed a hand on the small of her back absentmindedly.
“Wren?”
“What?”
“Did you figure out what the rebels are up to?” Ondine repeated.
“No,” Wren answered tersely. “Finnian refused to talk.”
Ondine gave a condescending chuckle. “He’s got balls, for a kip.”
Wren grunted, then stepped back and pulled her tunic over her head.
“Had balls,” she admitted, tossing it aside. “I hit him too hard. He died before I could get an answer out of him.”
She shed her leggings and undergarments and made for the washroom. Ondine followed, her footsteps lithe on the flagstones. Wren let out a noise of satisfaction when she found a bath had been drawn in the deep porcelain tub. A sweet, airy scent wafted from the water. Dozens of candles had been lit and placed on the stone counter, windowsill, and floor.
“Did you do this?” Wren asked, knowing the answer.
“Maybe,” Ondine teased, tossing her gleaming hair over her shoulder. “Well, I had one of the servants do it.”
“How considerate.”
Ondine smiled, then reached for the sash on her robe, undoing the knot. The garment pooled around her ankles, revealing her full breasts and soft stomach. Wren felt her mouth go dry. Perhaps sleep could wait.
“You poor, dreadful thing,” Ondine purred. She walked over to Wren and began to kiss her, first on the neck, then on the lips, lingering so Wren could taste her next words. “You’ve had such a long night. How can I make it better?”
Something not unlike a smile twitched on Wren’s lips as she took Ondine by the hand and led her to the steaming tub. She stepped into it and turned to watch Ondine, mesmerized by her lithe movements, the shivering caress of the water circling her waist.
Wren pulled Ondine to her and kissed her fiercely, a predator snaring its prey. Bathwater sloshed over the edge of the tub and onto the floor. Ondine moaned as Wren drew her bottom lip into her teeth and began to tease her under the waterline.
Whimpers bled from Ondine as she squirmed, unable to string together anything resembling a sentence, much less muster her usual snark. This was what Wren had needed. To be in control of something, anything.
Ondine dug her fingernails into her strong back as Wren plunged her fingers inside her to the hilt, triggering a broken cry.
“There you are,” Wren murmured. “Beautiful.”
She began to rock her hand back and forth, bringing Ondine to the height of pleasure with precision learned from their many encounters. Mere minutes passed before Ondine seized, panting and shivering as Wren encouraged her through the aftershocks. Wren could have kept going forever, but Ondine flipped her onto her back. Bathwater arched across the chamber, snuffing several candles.
Without catching her breath, the redheaded nightmare pinned Wren against the porcelain with a sloppy kiss, her hand trailing down her toned stomach.
“My turn,” she whispered.
Wren let her eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, she was nothing but a girl in the arms of her lover.
Eventually, they
they fell still in the lukewarm remains of the bath. Ondine lay on top of Wren, breathing hard though her pulse was slow and resolute. Wren had always found it oddly comforting. Her own heartbeat was much faster.
Eventually, Ondine broke the silence.
“What are you going to do about the rebels?”
Wren, who had been tracing the path of Ondine’s spine with the pad of her finger, froze. She was not in the mood for talking, much less about this. “What do you mean?”
“This is the third assignment you’ve returned from empty-handed.”
Wren propped her elbow on the edge of the tub, scrutinizing Ondine. Her expression had changed, revealing a glimmer of the killer lurking beneath her lovely features. In some ways, Ondine was the most dangerous sort of nightmare.
She was the kind you never saw coming.
“I’m aware,” Wren said, selecting her words with care.
“Para Warwick won’t be pleased.”
“Neither are you, clearly.”
Ondine rose on her knees to straddle Wren, the soaked tips of her hair dripping down the planes of her soft stomach. “You’re supposed to be his greatest weapon. His hand. His Nightstrider.”
Wren suppressed a flinch. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
Ondine tilted her head to the side, a pearl of water collecting at her earlobe. Her ears were round and deceptively kip-like. She could pass as one until her eyes went black from lid to pupil.
“Have I ever asked you not to call me Souldrinker?”
“I never call you that.”
“You used to,” Ondine snapped. Wren pursed her lips, glancing away from her lover. A tense, prickling moment inched past. Then Ondine sighed, her moon-white shoulders sloping down. “Do you understand how lucky you are to be who you are, Wren? To be the favorite?”
Wren shook her head, still not looking at Ondine. “I’m not the favorite.”
Not anymore.
“Please,” Ondine scoffed. “You get every good mission, every worthy kill, while the rest of us just sit here waiting for you to come back and act like you don’t love every second of it.”
“I do,” Wren shot back, finally flicking her eyes back to Ondine’s. “Maybe I’m just tired of you clinging to me like a fucking leech.”
Ondine recoiled as if Wren had slapped her. Her hurt morphed to rage. Without another word, she climbed from the bath and marched from the washroom, swiping up her robe along the way. Wren waited until she heard the door slam to sink deeper into the sweet water.
She had not intended to hurt Ondine, but better to let her think Wren was bored of her than weary of life as the Hand of Para Warwick.
Especially because she was.
3Caine
“On your feet, Prince Caine.”
Caine winced as light streaked across his face, slicing through his dreamless sleep. He sat up too quickly, a curse bubbling up on his lips.
“What time is it?” he garbled.
Last night was a wine-soaked blur. He forced his eyes open, bluish-green and bloodshot as all hells. It looked like a storm had blown through his chambers, scattering clothes, bottles, and half a feast.
“Noon,” Thomas replied, parting the gold-threaded drapes the rest of the way to reveal the blizzard raging outside the castle.
Even for Wolfhelm, the weather was grim.
Caine flopped back onto his pillows, slinging his arm across his aching eyes. “What happened?”
“Well, you started in on the wine around eleven and snuck off with Viola around three. Though, sneaking is a generous word—she told half the court.”
The memories came slinking back like scolded hounds. Viola, depositing herself in his lap in the middle of the feast, her fingers in his hair, her teeth scraping the skin of his neck. It was no secret they had been dancing around each other for months. It was her last chance to make a move before the wedding.
The wedding. Or, as Caine called it, the reason for his blistering hangover.
The prince sat up. Slowly.
“When will they arrive?” he asked as he began to massage his temples.
“They should be here by sundown,” Thomas answered.
Caine let his hands drop, examining the captain with mounting suspicion. Thomas was a few years older than him with broad shoulders and a smile quick to ignite. He was also a notoriously bad liar. The captain shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting with the hilt of the ceremonial rapier at his side.
“Out with it,” Caine ordered.
“Out with what?”
“Whatever has you hopping around like a rabbit.”
Thomas ran a hand over his coarse curls, looking anywhere but the prince. “Your father wants to see you.”
Caine groaned. “Of course he does.”
“I can go with you if you’d like.”
“You have better things to do.” His silence confirmed this, but Thomas still looked worried. The prince smiled despite himself. He was lucky to have the captain as a guardian and friend. “I’ll see you tonight at the feast.”
“I’ll be there when the procession arrives, ...
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